


Prince Of My Heart

by allmystars



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Arranged Marriage, Canon Typical Violence, Class Differences, Dean Winchester Has a Crush on Castiel, Death Threats, Disaster Dean Winchester, Drunken Shenanigans, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, Happy Ending, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Dean Winchester, Past Child Abuse, Poor Dean Winchester, Prince Castiel (Supernatural), Sweet Castiel (Supernatural), The Bachelor AU, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2020-12-08 00:02:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 169,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20984627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allmystars/pseuds/allmystars
Summary: Suitors line up from far and wide for a chance to be one of eleven that get to know, and potentially marry, Crown Prince Castiel Novak.Hey, Dean has just as good of a shot as any, right?





	1. The Selection

**Author's Note:**

> Suptober Day 3 - Royalty.  
So, this was just supposed to be a really short thing, but who knows? I might add another chapter at some point.
> 
> *Edit*  
Okay, so I'm adding FIVE chapters. And adding a LOT more to this one.
> 
> **Edit**  
That last edit is a lie. I'm adding 76 ish chapters (That may change, too, but we'll see)
> 
> Updates every Wednesday (and Saturday) (No it doesn’t, ignore me.)

Dean has been waiting for this moment his entire life. Ever since the birth of the Crown Prince Novak when Dean was three years old, he knew he wanted to marry him one day. Now is his chance; today is the day Prince Castiel Novak will choose his potential bride or groom, and Dean is certain it will be him.

He adjusts his tie in the mirror as a nervous sweat beads on his brow. His dad made him buy a new suit, saying it's too important of an occasion to _ not _ look his best, but he knows what his dad wants. The Novaks are _ rich_, obviously, and John Winchester seems to think this marriage is all about money, and as such, Dean needs to look like he has _ any_.

He has to admit, he looks nice, and even if Sammy likes to tease him, he knows the kid’s happy for him. So, he gives himself one more glance over, and turns away from the mirror—there’s no way Castiel will turn him down. 

“Oh, honey you look wonderful!” His mom gushes as he steps into the tiny kitchen where she’s cooking beet soup for the fifth time this week—after twenty-four years, he’s slowly getting used to the smell but his nose still wrinkles when he wraps his arms around her.

“Thanks,” he says, his cheeks flushing as he tugs at his lapels. “We, uh… need to leave.”

She nods, still smiling that proud, motherly smile as she brushes her hands over his shoulders. “Just smile like you know your worth and everyone else will too.” She pinches his cheeks, her grin turning sly after a moment. “It wouldn’t hurt to bat those eyelashes a few times, too.”

“Mom,” he groans, blushing hotter as he throws his head back. She just laughs, patting his cheek before turning back to the stove, and Dean feels nerves trickle into his stomach. 

“Good luck, sweetheart,” she says, just as his dad walks in with Sammy trailing close behind.

“Let’s get going,” John grunts as he kisses Mary goodbye. Luckily, the castle isn’t too far from Dean’s home, and even _more _lucky is that Prince Novak’s birthday is in the fall, so the ceremony shouldn’t get too hot or cold. Damn, the man really is perfect.

It’s not long before Dean finds himself waiting in a crowd of hundreds of eligible suitors, and for the first time, he starts to worry that he’s not good enough, smart enough, nice enough, _ whatever _enough, to marry the likes of Prince Castiel. 

The square where they are gathered is loud—people gush over dresses and suits, discussing what they might say to the Prince, and generally chatting about their nerves and excitement. Dean’s eyes scan wildly for anyone he knows, bumping and jostling to make his way through the square, but before he can find a friend, they’re silenced by a horn. 

Almost as a collective unit, they turn to face the balcony where all eight members of the royal family will emerge. Both the king and queen, and their six children, ranging in age from twenty-one to seven, with Castiel being the eldest of the brood and, therefore, the heir to the throne.

Dean holds his breath as the five younger siblings line up beside their parents. Castiel will be last, and Dean just knows he’ll take his breath away. 

There’s a collective gasp as a tall, dark-haired figure appears, dressed in lavish robes and a glittering crown—his sharp blue eyes pierce the onlookers and, yes, Dean is _ breathless_. For a full minute, nobody speaks—not even a sound is heard amongst the crowd of both villagers and suitors—then, seemingly all at once, the square erupts into cheers.

Dean doesn’t join them as his heart thunders against his rib cage, too busy watching color filter into Castiel’s cheeks at all the attention. Dean finds it entirely too endearing, but he wonders if Castiel had any say in this, or if it’s being forced upon him. 

He doesn’t have time to dwell on it, though, as a magistrate steps forward, a scroll in hand, and introduces Castiel.

“Prince Castiel Charles James Novak, son of King Charles Peter Francis Novak the third, and Queen Naomi Jane Florence Novak, Rulers of the great nation of Amarellino. Today, on the eighteenth of September, Prince Novak will declare his suitors, one of which will be his future companion and, upon the unfortunate death of his father, will ascend the throne to rule. Do you accept this honor, your highness?” The magistrate dips his head after he says his piece, and takes a step back as Castiel answers. 

“I do,” he declares, his deep, rumbling voice carrying over the square. The crowd erupts again, before promptly settling as the magistrate continues on.

“From this crowd of suitors, eleven have been chosen to meet the Prince and have a chance at his hand. He has carefully sifted through the applications, so trust that this is not something that is being taken lightly.” Castiel nods and Dean gets the feeling that he’s not the type of man to let someone else decide such matters for him. “Prince Novak will now read out the names of his suitors.”

Castiel nods again, thanking the magistrate as he takes a step forward, papers in hand. “It is an honor to speak before you today, on the day of my twenty-first birthday.” He smiles, but it’s stiff, and Dean can’t help but feel his discomfort. “Today, I will meet my future companion, which is a gift in itself. Now, I will read the names.”

“God, I hope he picks me,” a young girl—probably no older than eighteen or nineteen—says right beside Dean. She’s pretty enough, though she sneers at Dean when she catches him looking, almost as if to say _ do you really think he’ll choose _ you_? _Dean turns back to face the balcony. In all honesty, now that he’s here and seeing all these people, he doesn’t think so. What’s so special about him, after all?

“Hannah Becket, Sarah Blake, and Charlie Bradbury,” Castiel says, and a group of girls erupts into squeals a few feet away. “Balthazar Salazar, Joanna Harvelle and Lily Sunder.” A cheer goes up behind Dean and his heart swoops. _ Only five more. _“April Kelly.” Castiel actually glances up at the noise this girl makes. “Meg Masters, Michael Haven, and Kelly Kline.” He reads the names in quick succession before pausing as he reads the last one.

Dean’s throat tightens as disappointment settles in his gut. He always thought he and Castiel would be good together, but now he’ll never know because, really, what are the odds that the last name will be his?

For the second time today, the crowd seems to collectively hold their breath. Dean can’t be sure, and it probably doesn't happen, but he almost thinks Castiel looks right at him before reading the name aloud.

“The final suitor is…” he pauses, reading the name again as one side of his mouth twitches upward. “Dean Winchester.”

The crowd goes wild.

Before Dean knows what’s happening, hands grab at his arms and force him to move. He doesn’t struggle, too shocked by the chaos around him to fight as the crowd goes nuts. They shout and cheer, and reporters try to shove their microphones in Dean's face, and then words are being spoken into his ear.

“Keep your head down, Mr. Winchester. We’re taking you into the palace.” Dean does as he’s told, keeping his chin tucked and his eyes lowered as blinding camera flashes sear his retinas. He blinks away the spots in his vision in time to see the grand, ornate front doors of the palace open to let him in, the gold and gems sparkling in the light of the fading sun as he stumbles up the steps.

He’s never had the opportunity to enter the palace before—his family was never one of the ones offered the privilege of meeting the royal family, and the closest he’s come to actually meeting Castiel was on a field trip in the fifth grade when Castiel was given leave from his private tutoring to meet them on the front steps and greet them one by one. Dean had been the only student to make the mistake of extending his hand to the young Prince and, as the rest of the class gasped in horror, Castiel had smiled and clasped their hands together, ignoring the bright flush on Dean’s cheeks.

Dean forgets that memory, though the shadow of its presence—and the scars from the hours after—still remain as his eyes roam the cavernous entrance hall, its domed ceilings reaching high into the sky with the most beautiful frescoes painted there that Dean has ever witnessed. His shoes and the shoes of the other ten suitors echo on the marble floors as they’re led down hallway after hallway, passing paintings and statues and grand sitting rooms as they navigate the maze that is Novak Palace. How does anyone find their way around this place? 

Dean looks over at one of the men leading him on and notices the Novak crest emblazoned on his uniform—so they’re guards, then. Or soldiers, but they definitely work for the Novaks. 

“Where are we going?” he asks, not really expecting an answer since the man’s face is set in an impassive, stony mask, but he does answer, though he doesn’t look at Dean as he speaks.

“To your rooms.” That’s it. Dean doesn’t ask any more questions, deciding to save them for later as nervousness swells inside him. He’d be lying if he said he’s not overwhelmed by all this. None of them really know what’s to come, or what to expect from it all—the most information they received for signing up was that their families will be compensated for their time away and Prince Novak will have ten weeks to choose a lifetime companion.

Suitors peel off from the group with their guards one by one until Dean is the only one left walking down the hall. He’s surprised when they reach the end and turn the corner, but when a set of double doors is opened in front of him, he’s anything but disappointed. 

The room is beautiful, to say the least. Dean's never seen such splendor in his life, with its cream and gold accents and extravagant furniture. The bed looks like heaven, with its thick pillows piled high against the headboard, especially when compared to his own bed, with its threadbare blanket and too-short frame. It’ll be nice to sleep in a bed where his feet don’t hang off the end.

He wanders in a little further, feeling the squishy carpet under his shoes as he turns in a circle. There’s a fireplace on the wall to his left, opposite the bed, with a seating area around it, and Dean wants to sink down onto the cushions immediately. 

He holds off, though, because right in front of him is a wall of windows, with French doors that lead out into the most beautiful garden he’s ever seen.

Without even noticing that he’s moving, he finds himself in front of the windows, his breaths clouding the glass as his eyes roam over the gated garden with its array of flowers of every color, and the small waterfall that flows into a pond in the far corner. 

He looks over his shoulder, his mouth opening to ask if he’s allowed to go out, but finds his room empty and the door closed. He hesitates for a moment, his hand on the door handle, before deciding no one'll know if he just takes a quick peek. 

Slowly, as his heart pounds, Dean presses the handle down and pushes the door open on smooth, silent hinges before out into the grass. The cool breeze brushes his cheeks and he breathes it in, the scent of pollen and freshwater suffusing his senses as he closes the door behind him with a soft click.

He’s still in his suit, but he doesn’t worry too much about that as he grazes his fingertip over a petal of the closest rose, feeling its silky texture before moving away with a smile. The garden is fairly small, enclosed with a wrought-iron fence and hedges that hide it from outside eyes, and, as Dean looks at the stone wall of the palace, he notices that his is the only room with access, though there are windows above that look down on it.

Dean stands in the middle of a grassy patch, his hands in his pockets with his head tipped back, looking up at the various windows and wondering where they lead. He’s sure some of them are the residences, but probably only for the servants—the royal family is probably on the uppermost floor where Dean can see the shapes of private balconies and steps that lead to the roof far above. Dean's heard rumors of a colony of bees up there that Prince Castiel tends to in his spare time.

He’s lost in thought, not really looking at any window in particular when something catches his eye. Every window is covered by thick curtains, not a sliver of the room beyond visible from the outside, except one. There’s someone _ watching _him, and he holds their eyes for a while. He’s too far away to be able to tell their color, but they pierce into him all the same. He can’t look away—stuck in place as he watches the curtain ripple in the other person’s hand. 

He doesn’t know how long they watch each other but, eventually, the glass doors open in front of him and he drops his head to look at the tiny woman staring back at him, her dark eyes expecting something of him he isn't aware of. Dean glances up at the window once more, but finds the curtain back in place, shifting like it's just been dropped there.

With a heavy sigh, he steps inside and offers the woman a small smile. She's a servant, judging by her plain, beige pants and matching button-up, neatly pressed, and perfectly fitted. It goes well with her sleek bun and subtle makeup.

She doesn’t smile back, though, giving him a pointed look before turning down the hallway to the right of the door that Dean hadn't bothered checking out after seeing the garden. 

“Come, come!” she shouts when Dean doesn’t follow right away, and he jumps, before hurrying to follow after her, and finds her in a closet the size of his entire house. She stares daggers through him when he steps inside. “On the pedestal, come on!” 

Dean does as he's told, too nervous to do anything, but he's not entirely sure what he did to piss her off. Surely no one's this prickly all the time, right? She searches through the rows and rows of hanging shirts and folded pants, muttering under her breath, and Dean can’t hear what she’s saying, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on that as she turns back around and starts to _ undress him_.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” He takes a stumbling step back, his hands going up to ward her off as he trips over the edge of the pedestal and almost lands flat on his ass. “What are you doing?”

She huffs, visibly reaching the end of her patience as she drops her hands to her hips and glares, her Amarellinian accent getting thicker as her annoyance mounts. “I have twenty minutes, Mr. Winchester! You need to be _ dinner ready _ in just _ twenty _ minutes! I am good, but I’m afraid I am not a miracle worker, so get on the _ pedestal _ and let me do my _ job_!”

Dean swallows hard, wary as he steps back up. He watches her with wide, nervous attention, but she just gets to work, and he doesn’t stop her this time as she strips him out of his jacket and starts unbuttoning his shirt.

He blushes from his toes to the roots of his hair when she reaches for his belt buckle. “I-I can, uh… You can just leave me the clothes to—”

“No, Mr. Winchester. ‘_Susie Samson must dress Mr. Winchester, herself!_’ This is what the Crown Prince has ordered, and you are not to argue. Step out of the pants,” she says when she gets them to his ankles, and he does as he’s told. When she looks at him in his ratty underwear, she tsks, and humiliation floods hot and prickling through his veins, but it’s nothing compared to the utter mortification he feels when she tugs them down, exposing him in the middle of the room before telling him to step out of those, too.

Dean closes his eyes as a sick knot twists in his gut, and he has to force his hands to stay at his sides, clenching them into tight fists as his knees shake and he shivers. 

Susie works quickly, though, and she seems utterly unconcerned with his nudity as she bends to hold a pair of clean, perfectly white underwear at his feet, telling him to, “Step in!”

He breathes a sigh of relief when he’s covered, and can’t help liking how the underwear feels against his skin. After his heart rate has calmed down a bit, he takes the opportunity to look around at the rows and rows of clothing. Expensive, wonderfully extravagant, and—as he finds out soon enough—perfectly tailored for him. He’s baffled as to how they could possibly have his measurements since not even _he _has his measurements.

Susie tucks his shirt in and knots his tie—attaching cufflinks to his sleeves and fixing his collar—all while muttering about not having enough time to give him a wash, and Dean can’t even express _ just how glad _he is that there’s no washing.

She steps back, looking over him with a critical eye in his burgundy suit and tie, white button-down shirt, and golden cufflinks and tie clip combo. He looks damn good if he says so himself, but Susie sighs and shakes her head.

“Good thing your face is so pretty. I don’t know if I could have pulled it off if you were ugly as a goat.” She turns him to face the mirror head-on and fixes his hair, her short, thin fingers rearranging strands into some semblance of what she deems, “Acceptable enough for the Crown Prince.”

As she’s ushering him out of the closet—or, _ dressing room _as Susie calls it—Dean stops her, making sure to look her in the eyes as he speaks, his smile bright and genuine. “Thank you.”

She stops, looking far more taken aback than he expects her to, before turning away, muttering about getting him to dinner before he’s late, but Dean still catches her blush, and his smile grows.

She leaves him with the guards waiting outside his door, and they lead him through the maze of hallways to a long dining hall, with a table in the middle that spans the length of the room and easily forty chairs around it. The ten other suitors are already in their seats and Dean deflates when he finds that the last two place settings are the one at the head of the table, presumably for Castiel, and one six seats away beside the one he thinks is named Hannah, and diagonal from the other man—Balthazar. Lily and Meg are laughing from the seats on either side of the one reserved for Castiel, flipping their hair and glancing at the others with so much disdain, it’s almost palpable.

Dean takes his seat, smiling at Hannah when she looks over at him and breathes a sigh of relief when her lips tilt up at the corners in her own version of a smile. 

He glances around the hall, taking in the lavish drapery and large paintings on every wall. The decor is beautiful and perfectly suited to a palace, but what Dean finds most shocking are the cameras. 

There are at least six cameramen milling around the room, setting up stands and coming around the table to clip mics on everyone. He was never told anything about cameras! But, as they soon find out, the whole process will be filmed and televised for the entire nation to watch.

“It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity,” the director says. There’s a microphone attached to his ear and he moves around the room in such a flurry that it puts Dean on edge. Meg and Lily preen under the attention, Hannah seems resigned to it, and Balthazar is completely oblivious as he tosses back the expensive wine in front of him. Dean doesn't even bother looking at the others; they've got to be much the same. 

Dean watches Balthazar for a moment, just waiting for him to snatch the bottle from the waiter's hand, but he doesn’t, and Dean can honestly say he’s a little disappointed. Dean sits in silence as they wait for Castiel to arrive, and he can’t help the excitement that floods him at the thought of finally getting to speak with Prince Novak about his amazing work with underprivileged children, or the charities he runs to preserve the environment. The man does so many amazing things, and Dean wants to discuss them all.

But, to his immense disappointment, when Castiel shows up to dinner, he barely speaks. Meg doesn’t shut up almost the entire time, and Castiel seems fascinated by what she has to say, much to Lily’s annoyance, so Dean speaks with Hannah, instead, since she’s closest to him. 

He learns that she comes from their neighboring kingdom, here only for the political alliance the king hopes to forge with a wedding. Dean is a little shocked by the information since they were all led to believe they were hand-picked by Castiel, himself. Then again, maybe she is, just not for love.

“Do you miss your home?” Dean asks after she tells him she hasn’t been in her kingdom for the better part of the year, touring from country to country in search of a royal husband.

With a delicate sigh, she sets down her cutlery and looks around the room before meeting his eyes. “Yes, but this is my duty.” Her voice is stiff and regal, and he can’t believe he didn’t see it before—how her status practically bleeds into the room. It’s not nearly as overt as Castiel’s, but he can see it in how she holds herself—in how she speaks in the most restrained and diplomatic way—and he can’t help but think she’s perfect for Castiel.

He doesn’t know what to say to that, though, so he starts to ramble. “I miss my family, too. I don’t live too far from here, but my family's always been really close, you know? It’ll be difficult being away from them for any amount of time.”

Hannah stares at him for a moment, her mouth open the tiniest crack like she doesn’t know what to say. Then she smiles and it’s _ real _this time. Not overly warm, but genuine all the same as his shoulders lose some of their tension. “Do you have a large family?”

“Not really, no. Just me, my mom and dad, and my snot-nosed little brother.” He grins just talking about Sam, feeling a fondness that's not at all unfamiliar to him. “He’s fourteen, but he’s growing like a weed. No doubt he’ll be taller than me in no time.”

“Oh, I find that hard to believe,” she says, covering her mouth with a delicate hand as she laughs. 

Dean raises an eyebrow as he takes a bite of his steak—which is cooked to fucking _ perfection_. “You’ll just have to meet him. He’s lanky as hell but he’s going to be tall.”

“I’d like that,” Hannah says, dipping her chin in a nod before she turns back to her meal. Dean feels a certain kind of warmth flood him as he does the same. He didn’t think he’d find friends here because of his social status and the competitive aspect of the whole thing, but it’s nice to know someone's willing to talk to him. 

The night carries on in quiet conversation and copious amounts of alcohol as the cameras record every second of every angle possible—it’ll be a wonder if they can manage to not have another camera in every shot—Dean mostly talks with Hannah and attempts to engage Balthazar in conversation, but the man is so far gone, there’s no talking to him in any intelligent manner. Dean decides to only have the one glass of wine—his tolerance is pretty high, but this is potent stuff and he doesn’t want to make a fool out of himself on the first night.

After dinner, Castiel stands and they all fall silent under his steady gaze. He meets each of their eyes in turn, never lingering too long, and Dean gets the sense that this is a practiced move. He smiles a little at the thought.

“Thank you all for accepting my invitation to dinner. I am aware that this is quite a bit to take in, and that being away from your families for any amount of time can be difficult,” he gives Hannah a meaningful look as he says this, and she dips her head. “But I am grateful and humbled at the thought that you should want to get to know me enough to do so.” Dean can’t be sure, but he thinks Castiel’s eyes linger on him for just a moment longer than the others, and he can’t help but think back to his staring contest in the garden.

“It’s a pleasure to meet such a dashing fellow,” Balthazar slurs as he tips his chair back on its legs. He sloshes a bit of wine on the hardwood and Dean can’t help but notice the twitch at the corner of Castiel’s eye. He covers his smirk with a hand over his mouth. “Am I right?” Balthazar looks at the rest of them, his grin wide and sloppy.

“Oh, yes!” Meg says, eyeing Castiel as he stands in front of her, dressed to the nines like the prince he is. “Very handsome,” she murmurs, then reaches out a hand to stroke his arm. 

There’s a collective gasp from everyone in the room as Castiel flinches away, and Meg doesn’t seem to realize her transgression until a royal guard steps between them, glaring at Meg but speaking to the group.

“Might I remind you all that, though you are here to court Prince Novak, he is _ still _the Crown Prince and you are, under no circumstances, allowed to lay a hand on him.”

The tension in the room is palpable as the guard stares Meg down. She blinks a few times as if shocked by the reaction but decides not to say anything as she looks back at her plate. Castiel clears his throat and steps back to his seat, adjusting his suit jacket before continuing his speech. 

“We will be moving to the sitting room across the hall for coffee and dessert, please join me there in a few minutes. Now, if you will all excuse me…” He turns away, visibly shaken, and leaves the room with two guards following close behind.

They sit there in silence for a moment before the director claps his hands, and for once, Dean is thankful for him. “Alright, folks! Let’s get a move on! This stuff needs to be finished and edited by the morning and you all need your beauty sleep.” He winks with a staged smile as they all stand, following the guards to the other room. Dean walks behind Balthazar, watching him stumble and sway, and a few times, he reaches out a hand to steady him so he doesn’t fall into one of the priceless statues littering the room, but they make it to the sitting room in one piece—no vomit or shattered ancient artifacts to speak of.

The sitting room is quite small compared to the dining hall, with couches and chairs like the ones in his room set around a coffee table. There’s a table with little finger desserts and coffee on one table, but as Dean continues to look around the room, his eyes latch onto a table of pure heaven.

Pies. So many pies.

Dean’s mouth waters as he makes a beeline for them, not even caring if it’s considered inappropriate to take more than one slice as he asks the server to load him up with cherry, apple, and pecan. He takes a seat beside Hannah on the largest couch, barely glancing up when she chuckles and digs into the first slice.

“So, you love pie?” Hannah asks, and Dean grins as he shovels another bite of sweet apple pie and perfectly flaky crust into his mouth. He can only nod and, as he watches her eye his plate, he holds it out to her. Her eyes widen when she realizes he’s offering her a bite and she shakes her head. “Oh no, I couldn’t possibly.”

Dean swallows. “Are you sure? I don’t mind. I could get you your own slice of you want?” She chews her bottom lip, thinking about it, before she takes the plate from his hands, not seeming to care about sharing a fork as she looks around, her eyes flicking back and forth, before scooping up a forkful of the pecan pie and taking a bite.

Her big blue eyes widen as she covers her mouth, nodding as she chews and swallows. “Wow, that is wonderful.”

Dean laughs as she hands the plate back, and she seems to relax a bit more. For the first time, Dean notices just how pretty she is in her demure, navy blue silk gown. It’s been a while since he’s noticed another person’s beauty, but—and don’t get him wrong, she _ is _beautiful—Dean’s not interested. She’s nice to talk to, though, and he appreciates having someone kind in this strange place, especially since she seems somewhat familiar with the way these things are run.

He sinks back into the cushions a little more. “So, tell me.” He glances over at her, noticing the way she folds her hands over her knees and straightens her back a little as she looks to the door. He doesn’t bother looking over, but he can hear the guards moving around, so he’s sure Castiel isn’t too far away. “This touching thing, is that something all royals follow?”

She tilts her head, a small frown curving her lips. “No, it’s a ‘first-born’ thing.” She smiles at him, giving him a little bit of side-eye. “I won’t have you hanged for sharing your pie and sitting so close.”

A burst of laughter escapes him when she winks, and he rolls his eyes, but nods. “Good to know.”

She lifts her shoulders in a delicate shrug. “I don’t fully understand it since I’m the fourth of five children, but it was explained to me as having something to do with the purity of touch. The intimacy that comes along with touching another human being is something that shouldn’t be shared between the royals and the commoners.”

Dean frowns, trying not to be too offended by the word ‘_commoners_’ as he thinks it over. “Okay, so if you were the firstborn, would you have had an event like this?”

Hannah smiles, but it’s almost sad. “No. This kingdom is very large—the largest and wealthiest there is—and so, the marriage of the Crown Prince is one to be concerned with. Not even my sister, who is the Crown Princess, got a ceremony such as this.” Another shrug, but with only one shoulder. “Prince Novak probably asked for this, in all likelihood. I can’t see him just accepting an arranged marriage; he has always been a little defiant.”

“Wait, you know him?”

“Of course,” she says, quirking an eyebrow. “Our families are close, even if our kingdoms’ aren’t. I was tutored with Castiel from a young age.”

Something twists in Dean’s gut, and suddenly he’s not so sure of himself. Everyone here comes from a wealthy—or royal, in Hannah’s case—family, and Dean is just a _ commoner_, barely able to scrape by and keep his family from starving. There’s no way Castiel will choose him over all the wonderful choices he has instead, and Dean could cry with this realization, but then the doors swing open, and Castiel steps in.

His eyes find Dean’s almost immediately.


	2. WEEK ONE - Monday

Dean rubs the sleep from his eyes as he sways on the pedestal, naked as the day he was born. It’s too early for him to give a damn, though, so the most Susie has to yell about is his poor posture and inability to stand completely still while she dresses him. Apparently, there’s a lot more time this morning, and she uses all of it to dress, undress, and _re_dress him.

“It’s just breakfast,” he whines as she scowls at the trousers clinging to his thighs. “I’m probably going to spill on them, anyway.”

Her head snaps up, a mix of horror and disdain contorting her features. “It is _ not _ just breakfast! It is breakfast with the _ Crown Prince_.” She shakes her head, pulling the pants off a little too forcefully. “And if you spill _ anything _on these clothes, I will have your head, boy! Guest, or no guest.”

Dean keeps his mouth shut after that and, thankfully, one of the camera crew comes in to explain this whole ordeal to him. The man seems utterly unbothered by Dean’s level of undress, and Dean hardly notices as he’s stripped down and clothed again while the guy talks.

“Today is the first time you will be officially introduced. We’ll do a full bio segment where we’ll get you to talk about your life outside of this competition.” The man looks down at his clipboard. “Tuesdays and Saturdays you will have personal interviews. Someone will ask you questions and you will answer as honestly, and in as much detail as you can, got it?”

Dean nods, distracted as he steps into a pair of dark green pants, trying not to trip as Susie slides them up his legs.

“Good. Breakfast is being served on the back lawn this morning.” Dean looks up at that, shocked that the Prince would do something so informal. “It’s a beautiful morning so you’ll spend quite a bit of the day outside. Lunch will be served there as well, and it’s very important for you to take this time to try to talk to the Prince as often as possible.”

Dean smirks at the thought of that bloodbath, but the guy is too busy flipping through sheets of paper to notice.

It seems Susie has decided on a black button-down and a green jacket to match the pants. His tie is a shimmering gold, but his tie-clip and cufflinks are a glossy obsidian. Susie nods her satisfaction, but Dean scowls. “I look like a fucking leprechaun,” he mutters, looking down at himself before scowling at the mirror and Susie scoffs, taking a step back and raising both eyebrows.

“You what? A _ leprechaun_? You do _ not _look like a leprechaun, Mr. Winchester.” Susie turns to the crew member. “Does Mr. Winchester look like a leprechaun to you?”

The guy's eyes widen before they trail over Dean’s body, pausing on his shoulders, legs, and ass as a blush creeps into his cheeks and he looks back to his papers. He clears his throat, “Uh, no ma’am. He looks… he looks fantastic. I need to go.”

Dean flushes hot, fidgeting from the compliment. He plays with his cufflinks and shuffles his feet, but doesn’t hear a word of Susie’s snippy retort as she sits him in a chair to fix his hair.

When she’s finished with him, a guard leads Dean out onto the lawn, yawning and rubbing at his eyes as he goes. It looks like most of the suitors are already there, and Dean does a quick scan of the yard for Hannah, but she hasn’t arrived yet, so he seats himself beside the bubbly red-head—Charlie. 

She’s absorbed in conversation with another lady—Kelly, he thinks—so Dean uses the time before Castiel arrives to lay his napkin over his lap and take in the splendor of the grounds.

With rolling hills and patches of flowers as far as the eye can see, the grounds take up most of the property. Dean's heard there’s even a lake somewhere back in the forest, but no one's ever seen it to really be able to say if it’s true. From where Dean is seated, he can see the stables not too far off with bales of hay stacked up against one side. The barn isn’t constructed of worn wood and a thatched roof like the barns of the country people—this one is built with the sturdiest stone and steel roofing. The doors take up most of the front and, right now, they’re swung wide open, revealing the stalls of horses inside.

“I kind of want to check it out. You?” Dean jumps, startled by the voice in his ear before he turns his gaze to Charlie with a smile. 

“I’ve never ridden, but I’d love to try.” He shrugs, glancing back at the barn as a stable boy leads one of the horses inside.

“Really? Never?” Charlie looks genuinely surprised, and Dean guesses she’s not from around here. Money isn’t exactly growing on trees outside the palace walls, and Dean’s family is no exception. Besides, everything they need is sold in the market.

“Not much use when everything’s within walking distance,” he says instead of telling her that no one can afford them and picks at the linen napkin, wondering how they get the stains out of the pristine, white fabric.

“Guess that’s true. My family’s farm is at the edge of the village, so we kind of need the horses, you know? I can’t imagine walking into town every day.” She puffs out her cheeks and widens her eyes at the thought.

Dean laughs, then holds out his hand for her to shake. “I’m Dean, by the way.”

“Yeah, I know who you are—the favorite.” She grins up at him, ignoring his confusion in favor of telling him her name, which he, too, already knows, but he doesn’t say so. “I’m Charlie.”

“Nice to meet you, Charlie.” He looks around at the rest of the gathered suitors before leaning closer to her. “So, who do you think’ll win this thing?”

“Hmm,” she hums, leaning in, too. She places a finger on her lips, pretending to be thinking hard about it. “Oh, definitely him. The one tossing back the mimosas? That guy’s a real trophy.” 

Dean laughs, nodding along with her. “Balthazar, yes. Quite the treat, that one.” Dean raises an eyebrow with a sly smile. “And what about you? How do you think you’ll do?”

She blinks a few times before her face flushes and she leans in close again, but this time, she’s far more serious than Dean expects. “Can you keep a secret?”

“Uh, yeah,” Dean whispers back, startled by the shift in tone, but he goes with it, leaning in close enough for Charlie to whisper in his ear.

“I, uh… I like girls, okay? I’m just here for the extra cash since my parents are cutting me off.” Charlie pulls back, staring up at Dean with wide eyes, waiting for his reaction.

“You’re serious?” Dean asks, and he can hear the shock clear in his own voice as he searches her face, but finds no hint of a trick. She nods, almost imperceptibly, and he blows out a breath, giving her his own nod. “Alright, that’s... cool, I guess.” He’s not sure how he feels about it, actually, but he’s already guessed that not everyone is here to find love. Something about that doesn’t sit right, though—what happens if one of them is chosen? Will Castiel end up in an unhappy marriage because he doesn’t know any better?

All the tension in her shoulders seems to melt away as she grins wide, bumping his arm with her elbow. “Thanks, Dean.” She stares up at him for a moment, thinking, and he waits for her to figure out whatever’s spinning around in her head. “You know what? I like you. I can see why you’re the favorite.” She turns away, diving for her mimosa before Balthazar can snatch it away, and Dean doesn’t get a chance to ask her what she means by that because, just as he opens his mouth, trumpets sound, and Castiel walks out of the castle, followed by a set of guards.

“He really is handsome, isn’t he?” Charlie whispers, but Dean doesn’t respond, too caught by just _ how _handsome Castiel is in a royal-blue suit and white button-down, hair combed neatly to the side, and a smile on his face that’s a little on the shy side of formal.

“Good morning,” Castiel says to the group. With everyone seated, he looks around, meeting each set of eyes before taking his own chair directly across from Dean. Just freaking _ perfect_. “I trust you all slept well?” Which is followed by a chorus of _ yes, your highness _ and _ wonderfully, my lord_. Dean just sits quietly, a small smile on his face as he watches Meg and April fight for Castiel’s attention.

Dean turns to the person on his other side, deciding he might as well make a few friends while he’s here, and introduces himself, his hand held out to shake. “I’m Dean.”

The woman to his right turns with a startled frown, which quickly morphs into a smile as she takes Dean’s hand. “Joanna Harvelle, but you can call me Jo.”

“Nice to meet you, Jo.” 

“Likewise,” Jo smiles, and Dean has to admit, she’s pretty. With long, curling blonde hair, and lively eyes, he’s sure she’ll have no trouble catching the Prince’s attention. 

He chats with Jo for a bit, but they’re interrupted, first, by the waiters serving their breakfast—a mix of fresh fruit, bacon, sausage, eggs, pancakes, and toast with an assortment of jams the likes of which Dean has never seen—the second time, by the camera crew telling them to ignore their presence and act normally—which would be so much easier if they quit announcing themselves every twenty minutes—and the last time by Jo’s complete lack of interest in what he’s saying while she tries to catch Castiel’s attention.

Dean sighs, accepting his defeat, and turns back to Charlie, who seems to be having the same problem with Kelly, who gazes, doe-eyed and dreamy, at Castiel as he eats his pancakes, ignoring their collective existence in the politest way possible. It makes Dean smile.

Dean spends most of breakfast chatting with Charlie, talking about their families, and where they’re from—they even make plans to convince the guards to let them go horseback riding at some point before either of them is sent home.

“Yeah, no, okay,” Dean says, a little over-excited by the story he’s about to tell Charlie. “Okay, so when I was, I don’t know… five? Six, maybe? Anyway, doesn’t matter.” He takes a sip of his orange juice before continuing. “When I was five or six I was really into the whole acting thing, okay? I made up this one-man play with costumes and dialogue—the whole shebang—and performed for my parents every night.”

“Only the one show?” Charlie asks, her face screwing up as she pictures it in her mind.

“Only the one show and, believe me, it was just as tedious and annoying as you’re imagining it.” He flashes her a winning smile and carries on. “So, somewhere around this time my dad lost his job, and we were really struggling to keep food on the table, you know?”

“No idea,” Charlie says, and Dean waves her off.

“Yeah, yeah. Okay, fine.” He takes a moment to gather his thoughts. “So, we’re struggling. Like, my mom is cutting us back a meal a day, kind of struggling. And, mind you, Sammy isn’t even thought of at this point, so he’s not there, inhaling all our food, which, if you knew Sam, would make sense…” Dean pauses, feeling a little silly for including that part, but he shrugs it off. “But, whatever.”

“Whatever,” Charlie parrots, and Dean continues.

“So, little Dean, being the same resourceful, clever little shit he is today, decides to take his one-man show on the road.” He pauses for dramatic effect, and Charlie—bless her heart—gasps and holds a hand to her chest. “Sir Randal B. Fransisco and General Fiddleworth made quite the killing down in the market.”

“No way,” Charlie says, then throws her head back on a laugh. “Seriously?”

Dean nods, smiling around a bite of sausage. “Kept us fed until Dad got a new job. I was convinced I’d be a famous actor one day, but now I think they all just saw how skinny I was under my ratty clothes and took pity on me.” Dean shrugs, feeling the tinge of sadness that always comes when he thinks of those days. “Either way, it kept us fed, so I guess it doesn’t really matter why the money was given.”

It’s only when Dean stops talking that he realizes the rest of the table’s occupants have gone silent as well. Dean looks up, noticing all eyes are on him, and blushes something fierce, looking down at his plate like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

“Wow, that’s quite the story,” Meg says, her voice dripping with sarcasm, and Dean’s head snaps up as indignation curls in his stomach. “Anyone else?” She looks around the table. “No one wants to top that tall tale?”

Dean swallows back his snarl, his hand clenching around his fork. “You think I’m lying.” It’s not a question, but Meg still scoffs like the answer is obvious. Dean nods, “Well, I can assure you there are plenty of locals selling in the market, even today, that can attest to my fabulous acting skills.” He sits back in his chair, a winning smile on his face as Meg rolls her eyes.

“I think that’s something to be proud of.”

Dean’s eyes snap in the direction of the voice, and his eyes meet Castiel’s. They’re intense—earnest in their belief—and Dean can’t help the blush that rises in his cheeks.

“Being able to take care of your family in times of need, even at such a young age, is incredibly honorable. You should be proud of your strength.” Castiel holds his gaze for a long time, neither of them looking away as his words sink into Dean’s heart, warming him from the inside out.

“_ Any- _who…” Balthazar says from Castiel’s other side, drawing his gaze away. “Castiel, would you care to show me around the garden?” Dean watches as Castiel offers him a small smile before pushing back from the table. He waits for Balthazar to do the same, then, they're gone, leaving Dean and the nine other suitors to twiddle their thumbs until Castiel returns.

Meg leans across the table, catching Dean’s eyes with a dark look. “I know what you’re doing, Winchester.” 

He raises an eyebrow, leaning forward as well, though he’s careful to keep his tie out of the ketchup dish. “What would that be?”

“The whole pity-party thing? Not going to work forever. No one gives a shit about how poor you are, and soon, Castiel won’t either.”

Dean rolls his eyes, choosing not to react, and turns back to Jo, who is much more conversational now that Castiel isn’t here, but before Dean can really get to know her, he’s pulled away for his personal interview.

  


After an exhausting day of filming and socializing, Dean would’ve thought he’d fall asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, but alas, that isn’t the case. 

With a heavy sigh, he pushes himself up from his bed—that wonderfully cloud-like bed that _ should _put him to sleep in seconds, but doesn’t—and slips into some slippers. His silk sleep-pants will have to do for bottoms, but he can’t really wander out bare-chested, so he throws on a sweater and steps out of his room, into the dark and deserted halls.

He has no real destination, wandering aimlessly through the maze-like corridors until he reaches a set of glass doors that lead out to the grounds where they ate breakfast that morning. 

Dean hesitates for a moment, his hands resting on the handles, and looks up and down the hall, but he’s alone. With a deep breath, he pushes the doors open and steps out into the cool night air.

When Dean looks up at the sky, he wonders at the endless sea of stars. There’s not a cloud in sight and he can’t help the awed gasp that slips from his lips. The air is still, but chilly, so he wraps his arms around himself and pulls his sweater in tighter. 

Wandering a little further, he finds a stone bench and takes a seat, still staring up at the endless night. Dean doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything so beautiful. There’s too much light pollution so close to the square where his home is, but out here, in the gardens of the royal palace, it’s entirely dark. 

Even though there are a few windows with light shining through gauzy curtains, they don’t obstruct the view, and for that, Dean is grateful.

When his neck starts to ache, he lowers his gaze to the palace, his eyes skimming over the balconies high above, ivy and vines crawling over them and winding between the stone, and wondering what Castiel is doing right now. Is he asleep after such an exhausting day? Is he getting work done that he doesn’t have time to do with them there? Is he—

Dean’s thoughts are interrupted when he catches a lone figure watching him from one of the balconies not too far up. The person is silhouetted by the light shining through the windows, so Dean can’t tell who it is from his position, but he knows they’re watching him and, for some reason or another, he’s comforted by their presence. 

They watch each other for a while, silent in their companionship, and though Dean is starting to shiver, he doesn’t move, not wanting to ruin the moment just yet.

It seems he doesn’t really have a choice, though, because the other person turns suddenly, like someone just called them inside and, as they move towards the doors, the light illuminates their body. 

It’s only just before they step inside that Dean realizes the person is none other than the Crown Prince, himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	3. WEEK ONE - Tuesday

“Welcome, Mr. Winchester. Thanks for joining us,” the director, Mick Davies, says as Dean takes a seat on the stool set out for him. Dean smiles—it’s not like he had a choice. 

He blinks at the bright lights, grinning wide to hide his nerves as the cameraman, who he now knows by the name Nicholas, finishes setting up the camera.

“Thanks for having me,” Dean says, taking in the set as he pulls his button-down away from his skin. _ God, it’s hot in here_, he thinks, before wondering just how long he’ll have to endure this crap.

“Sure, sure.” Mick fiddles with a stack of papers before handing one over to the host of the show, who also happens to be the royal PR representative, of sorts—the royal advisor, he thinks is her official title. At least, that’s what Dean gleaned from the explanation; the woman deals with royal news and keeps the press at bay in terms of scandals. “Duma, if you could start on page three? Those are the most important questions in terms of what we’re going for with the episode.” 

Dean shifts in his seat, his eyes scanning the room while he waits. There’s not much that’s recognizable as _ royal_, what with all the wires, computers, and fancy gadgets Dean can’t even begin name. It’s all a bit intimidating, especially since he hasn’t been given any instructions on how to properly answer questions in an interview like this. He’s not even sure there _ is _a proper way but, judging by the snicker Meg tried—and failed—to cover up as he walked in, he’s guessing he’s probably the only one here that’s never done this before.

“Alright, let’s get this started.” Duma turns to the third page and a little red light flashes on the camera, signaling to Dean that it’s recording. Dean gulps, fighting against the urge to wipe at his forehead—Susie will kill him if he gets any face makeup crap on his crisp, grey suit-jacket. “So, Dean, how are you enjoying yourself so far?”

Dean’s mind goes blank and he panics. “Uh… it’s—it’s good, I guess—”

“Hold on, hold on.” Duma waves her hands in front of her, shaking her head as she looks at Dean with a fond smile. “When you answer a question, rephrase it first, so the audience knows what you’re talking about, okay?”

Dean flushes, his throat working as he swallows, and he nods, his hands twisting together in his lap. 

“Just relax, okay? Take a deep breath and be yourself.” 

He does as he’s told, inhaling deeply before letting the air out in a rush. “Okay,” he says, shaking out his hands and psyching himself up for his second try. “Okay, I think I’m good.”

“Good. I’m going to read the question again, alright?” 

Dean nods, thankful the other contestants aren’t here to witness this catastrophe. 

“How are you enjoying yourself at the palace so far?” 

Dean doesn’t look at the camera when he answers, making sure to repeat the question before he does so. “How am I liking it at the palace?” He pauses, deciding to just be as honest as possible. If people don’t like him, so be it. “The rooms are really nice, and the food is great.” He tilts his head and smiles. “Then again, it isn’t hard to beat my mom’s cabbage soup.” He chuckles before a flush rises in his cheeks and he leans forward. “Please don’t use that; it’ll break her heart to hear.” Then, a little louder. “I love your soup, Mom! Don’t listen to them!”

The crew chuckles and Dean’s embarrassment cranks up a notch, his heart pounding as he settles back on the stool for the next question. 

“How are you and Prince Novak getting on? What do you think of him so far?” Duma crosses one leg over the other, getting settled in for the next half an hour.

“I haven’t really gotten a chance to talk with him, yet. He seems lovely, though, from what I know of him. I’m excited to get to know him better,” Dean pauses then, realizing he forgot to repeat the question. He looks up at Duma with a guilty smile. “Sorry,” he whispers, wincing, but she just shakes her head. 

“We can make it work.”

“Oh, good.” Dean lets out a soft sigh and leans back, only remembering he’s on a stool when it’s too late, and he crashes to the ground, sprawling flat on his back and staring up at the ceiling as guards rush in to help him up.

When he’s back on his stool, bright red and mortified, they decide to take a five-minute break, and Dean rushes from the room. He needs a few minutes alone, so he heads for the restroom, closing the door behind him but not bothering to lock it as he stands in front of the mirror, gazing at his beet-red cheeks.

Without thinking, he turns on the tap and fills his hands with cool water before splashing it over his face. He only realizes what he’s done when skin-colored water swirls down the drain.

“Fuck,” Dean breathes when he looks into the mirror and sees his half-clean face. The fucking face makeup crap drips off his chin, and Dean closes his eyes as a groan falls from his lips. “Well, _ fuck me _.” It’s just one thing after another today and Dean’s starting to think maybe it’s a sign that he should just go home.

Dean jumps when the door opens, his eyes going wide when he sees who it is. _Of course_, Dean thinks. _Of course, it has_ _to be Castiel_.

“Oh, my apologies,” Castiel says and takes a step back, but he stops, his eyes narrowing in concern as he tilts his head to the side, his hand still clutching the door handle. “Is everything alright?”

Flustered, Dean stumbles over his words, his hands waving wildly in the air as his cheeks flame for the hundredth time in the last hour. “I, uh… my face—the makeup,” he pauses, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes to gather himself. “I accidentally washed off the makeup they put on me and now I have to go back in there, looking even more like a fumbling idiot than I already do.”

Castiel hides his surprise well, but Dean still sees it in the slight uptick of his brows, and he expects him to turn and flee, so he’s shocked as shit when Castiel steps inside, closing and locking the door behind him.

“This is easily remedied; no need to worry. Please, take a seat.” Castiel doesn’t look at him as he peels off his black, satin gloves and sets them aside before digging through the cupboards under the sink. 

Dean is too startled to move, frozen in place as he watches Castiel crouch down, trousers clinging to his ass and thighs. What is he _ doing_?

After a moment, Castiel looks up, raising an eyebrow when he finds Dean still standing. “Are you disobeying me?” Castiel asks, his voice flat and serious—no hint of humor in it—and Dean jumps to comply, sitting on the bench Castiel pointed at.

It’s only when he’s seated, his hands folded in front of him, that he sees the tiny smirk on Castiel’s face, and he flushes. 

“Good,” Castiel whispers, wetting a cloth and moving to squat in front of Dean. “I just need to get the old makeup off.” Dean tries to nod, but Castiel’s hand closes over his chin, holding him in place as he swipes at Dean’s cheek, his piercing blue eyes, intent and focused on his task.

Dean tries to focus on anything other than Castiel’s smooth, strong hands on his face. He closes his eyes, breathing deeply, but heat still rockets through his veins because Castiel is _ so close_. Closer—Dean is certain—than would be considered acceptable, but he doesn’t dare to move away. He doesn’t think he can even if he wanted to.

“There,” Castiel whispers, his breath brushing over Dean’s lips when he speaks, and Dean has to consciously hold back a gasp. “All clean. Don’t move, please.”

Castiel picks up a bottle of white liquid and squirts some out onto a flat brush. “Why is it white?” Dean blurts, his cheeks heating as soon as the words leave his mouth, but Castiel only smiles—just a small twitch of his lips, but a smile all the same.

“It’s a color-matching foundation.” He glances up from Dean’s cheeks and meets his eyes. “I’m going to need you to stop blushing so it doesn’t come out red.” Dean only blushes harder, fumbling over his words as his mouth opens and closes again and again. Castiel’s smile widens even more. “I’m kidding.”

“Oh,” Dean breathes. “Okay, good because we’d never get out of here, otherwise.” Dean snaps his mouth shut when Castiel starts brushing on the cream—foundation, Dean thinks he called it. Castiel tips Dean’s head back to get at his neck and Dean swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“Prone to blushing, are you?”

“Uh-huh. Mom thought she was feeding me too much beet soup, but it turns out I blush like a virgin on her wedding night.” Dean groans as soon as the words leave his lips, his eyes closing in embarrassment. “Sorry—not much of a filter.”

“It’s fine,” Castiel says almost absently as he focuses on his task. At some point, he lowered himself to his knees in front of Dean, and Dean _ refuses _ to let his mind go there. Nope. Not a chance—not with the fucking _ Crown Prince_, of all people. “I rather like that about you, if I’m being honest.”

Dean doesn’t get the chance to respond as Castiel’s hand comes back up to his chin, tilting his face down, and holding his mouth shut so he can get as close to Dean’s lips as possible without messing up. Dean watches as Castiel’s tongue sticks out of the corner of his mouth, his lips parted in the most adorable way, and his eyes, as focused as ever. It’s endearing, really, and Dean’s heart gives a kick in his chest.

Castiel leans back and examines his work before giving a brief nod and digging through the little grey bag on the floor beside him. Dean watches as he pulls out a little compact and a fluffy brush, much like the one Susie used on him this morning.

“How do you know about all this stuff, anyway?” Dean asks as he closes his eyes like Susie had him do this morning. This time, he makes sure to seal his lips, too—something Susie _ hadn’t _told him this morning.

Castiel dusts the powder over Dean’s face as he answers. “I’ve been on numerous newscasts throughout my life. I’ve picked up a few things along the way.”

“As one would,” Dean says, snapping his mouth shut again before he gets a mouthful of powder. 

“Hmm,” Castiel hums, and he’s silent for a moment as he brushes off the excess. “My youngest sister, Hael, also prefers that I do her makeup for events, so my knowledge extends beyond foundation and powder.” 

When Dean opens his eyes, he finds Castiel smiling back at him, and he thinks it might just be the most beautiful sight to behold. “Good to know.”

“Yes, for example,” Castiel turns back to his bag, digging through it for something in particular before holding up two little squares. “Highlight and _ blush_,” he grins wider as he says the latter, and Dean does exactly that.

“Do I really need that?” Dean asks, eyeing the two containers as Castiel searches for a clean brush.

“Yes.” That’s all he says on the matter as he takes Dean’s chin between his fingers and turns his head to one side. He swipes the blush from the apple of Dean’s cheek and along his cheekbone, before turning his face to the other side and doing the same.

When he’s done with the blush, Castiel grabs another brush and pulls out the highlighter. He gently and precisely—with his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth—makes a stripe down the center of Dean’s nose. Castiel pulls back and assesses before using the tip of one finger to blend the edges. 

Dean holds his breath the entire time. He’s certain this much touching breaks all kinds of rules, but he doesn’t dare to say anything—not just because he’s pretty sure the _no touching _rule only means that non-royals can’t initiate contact, but also because Dean _likes _Castiel touching him, and he doesn’t want to risk him pulling away.

After a moment, Castiel does anyway, and he takes a second to admire his handiwork before he graces Dean with another smile. “That should do it. You look lovely.” With that, he stands, packing away his things and washing his hands before he slips his gloves back on and stows the bag back under the sink where he grabbed it from. 

Dean rises to his feet, looking anywhere but into Castiel’s eyes as another blush rises in his cheeks. “Thank you, your highness.”

“Please,” Castiel says, and Dean’s eyes snap to his. “Just Castiel. Call me Castiel.” He smiles, and Dean thinks he could definitely get used to that.

“Thank you, Castiel.” Dean decides he likes the feel of the name on his tongue—something else he could get used to.

“We had better get going; I’m sure people are looking for us both by now.” Castiel pulls the door open, waving a hand for Dean to exit. “After you,” he says, a smile in his eyes—laughter in the way he speaks.

“Why, thank you.” Dean grins, straightening his suit-jacket as Castiel closes the door behind them. “We should do this again sometime,” Dean says, and he can already feel the blush creeping up his collar, but Castiel doesn’t get a chance to answer as a hoard of people come from both ends of the hallway.

“Dean! There you are; you need to finish your interview—”

“Your highness, we require your presence in the hall—”

“Where have you been, Mr. Winchester—”

“There is a matter I need to discuss with you, Prince Novak—”

All the voices merge together until Dean is being led by two guards, with hands on his shoulders, down the hallway, and Castiel—though, no hands are placed on him—is led in the opposite direction. 

Just before Castiel turns the corner, he glances back over his shoulder and catches Dean’s gaze for the briefest of moments. Then he’s gone. 

In the sitting room after dinner, Dean, Charlie, Hannah, Kelly, Sarah, and Jo sit, huddled close together on one of the couches as they wait for Castiel to join them. 

“You know what I heard today?” Jo says, her mouth quirking up in a grin as she leans even closer, her hands folding together in her lap. 

They all shuffle in, except for Dean, who is too busy devouring his third piece of pie to care.

“So, you know Meg? Apparently, she’s on the run. Something about a crime in her old country, but if she marries into royalty, all suspicion has to be dropped.” Jo leans back, her cat-caught-the-canary grin widening as Kelly gasps. 

“It’s true,” Hannah says, her lips pressing into a thin line. “To accuse a royal of a crime is not something taken lightly, even if one were only marrying into the royal family.” She gives a delicate shrug before glancing around the room. When she finds all the cameras turned away, she reaches for Dean’s fork and sneaks a bite of his peach pie.

He smiles, rolling his eyes, but lets her have her fill. She refuses to let him get her her own plate—something about it being unsightly for a royal to indulge. Dean thinks it’s ridiculous, but he doesn’t argue, and now that he thinks of it, he can’t recall ever seeing Castiel take any dessert for himself.

“I heard that, too,” Charlie adds, leaning back and crossing her legs as she raises an eyebrow. “I also heard that Balthazar bought his way in.”

“No way!” Sarah hisses as Dean chokes on his pie. Hannah spends a few minutes patting his back before he finally gets himself under control, his face burning with embarrassment.

“He needs the status to hide his drinking habits, I guess.” Charlie shrugs, “Not that he’s even _ trying _to hide it here.” She nods in his direction and they all turn to watch as he refills his wine glass, emptying the bottle as he does, and passing it back to the waiter.

“Honestly, though, is anyone actually here just to marry Castiel?” Jo asks, looking around their circle. Dean flushes and drops his gaze to his plate because that’s _exactly _what he’s doing. Sure, the money will help, but he would go without all of it just for a _chance _to get to know the Crown Prince.

“Oh, I am!” Kelly says, her hand shooting up as her eyes go wide and moony. “He’s just so _dreamy_, and I can’t even imagine what he’s like in bed,” she whispers, giggling as she does. “Probably super commanding, you know? God, he’s so handsome.” She looks up to the ceiling with a sigh before seeming to remember herself. “Oh, and he seems like a decent guy, too. I could definitely tolerate him for the rest of my life, especially if he ages well.”

The rest of the group giggles and laughs with Kelly, but Dean feels sick. Do any of them really _ just _want Castiel? Just for who he is and what he has to offer as a person? It’s a foreign concept to Dean, but he’s starting to understand that marriages of convenience aren’t all that uncommon in these social circles and, more than ever before, he realizes just how out of his element he really is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	4. WEEK ONE - Wednesday

Dean fiddles with the scarf around his neck, pulling it away from his throat as Susie fluffs his hair. When she realizes what he’s doing, she slaps his hands away and shoots him a withering glare.

“Don’t touch, Mr. Winchester!” She fixes the scarf as Dean sulks, his bottom lip sticking out in a pout. He looks ridiculous, Susie disagrees, so here he is, wearing the stupid scarf.

“It’s uncomfortable,” Dean whines, but Susie doesn’t fall for it, as he knew she wouldn’t. 

“Tough luck, boy.” She goes back to fixing his hair and Dean keeps his hands at his sides until she’s finished with him. A pair of guards lead him from his room—Benny and Cesar, as he’s come to know them. They’re actually incredibly chatty when there’s nothing else going on, and Dean really likes talking to them, but right now, they’re silent—working.

The dining hall is half full when Dean steps in, and he grabs a seat beside Hannah, who yawns into the back of her hand, blinking twice before she smiles up at Dean.

“You look nice,” she says and strokes his scarf with one finger. “I like your scarf.” There’s not a hint of sarcasm in her voice, only total sincerity.

Dean scoffs, “What’s wrong with you royals? The scarf is ridiculous and uncomfortable.”

“It’s called _ fashion_, Dean,” Hannah says, smiling as she rolls her eyes. “Ever heard of it?”

“No,” he grumbles. “I don’t get to be picky with my clothing, you know?” He fiddles with the lapels of his deep, blue-green blazer and rubs his palms on the matching pants, not really caring if he wrinkles them.

“Where’s Charlie?” Hannah asks instead of commenting. 

“She was fussing with her dress when I passed her room. Something about there being no back.” Dean shakes his head, confused by it all, but Hannah nods like she completely understands, and Dean feels left out of a secret.

“Makes sense.” Then, the lady in question bursts through the door, red-faced and with her hair sticking up all over the place. It seems, too, that she lost the fight about the backless dress.

She practically falls into the chair beside Dean, leaning close so both he and Hannah can hear. “You’ll never guess what I just saw,” she pants, swallowing hard to get her breathing under control. Both Dean and Hannah lean in, waiting patiently for whatever it is Charlie has to say. “Balthazar. He was being led from the palace by _ four _guards!”

“Really?” Dean asks as he loads his plate with crisp bacon and something they call an _ omelet_. Whatever it is, it’s one of the best things Dean has ever had, especially when they serve the mushroom, onion, ham, and cheese one.

“Do you think he’s being dismissed?” Hannah whispers, her hand covering her mouth as she leans in closer. Her eyes are wide and worried, but she still manages to set precise piles of fruit all around her plate, segregated by type and color.

“I don’t know,” Charlie says, sipping her mimosa before stealing a piece of bacon from Dean’s plate. He curls his lip at her but doesn’t otherwise protest. “I wouldn’t really be surprised, though. What with all the,” she holds up her glass and winces, “you know.”

Dean doesn’t really want to think about it—it’s a little harsh to send someone home like that, isn’t it? To not even give them the full week? But he guesses if Balthazar broke some kind of rule…

Dean shakes off the thought and scoops up a forkful of omelet, shoving it into his mouth with a soft moan. His eyes close and his head falls back as he chews. “Damn, I’m gonna miss the food when I leave this place,” he murmurs, and Charlie snorts. He ignores her, barely listening as the rest of the table weighs in on what they think is going on.

“I don’t know,” Kelly chimes in. “I don’t think Castiel would do something like that. Especially with it all being filmed and such.” She shrugs, but her eyes hold a hint of worry. Maybe she’s wondering the same thing as Dean—how long until he screws up bad enough to be sent home mid-week?

“He’s the damn Prince, do you really think he gives two shits what the people watching think?” Meg snarks from beside Castiel’s empty chair. She’s even more foul-tempered this morning since the Prince in question isn’t here. 

“Of course he does,” Dean snaps, swallowing the food in his mouth before continuing, his irritation rising with every passing second. “He’s not heartless; he cares about his people and what they think of him.”

After a few seconds of staring daggers at Dean, a malicious smirk turns up Meg’s lips as she sits back in her chair, arms crossed and an eyebrow raised. “Well, of course. That _ is _the reason you’re here, isn’t it? To appease the commoners? No way he’d have you here otherwise, right?” Dean’s jaw clenches as he stares her down, but he can’t respond—she’s hitting his worst fears right on the nose; confirming what he’s been thinking all along, but has been too afraid to voice. “You’ll be gone soon enough. Just needs to look like he cares about the poor, right?”

“Why don’t you crawl back to whatever hellhole you came from,” Charlie snaps, her glare turning fiery as she leans forward in her chair. A camera zooms in on her other side, but she doesn’t seem to notice. 

Megs rolls her eyes, “Whatever,” she says and turns back to her food. _ Coward_, Dean thinks as he picks up his fork.

“Disgusting devil spawn,” Charlie mutters under her breath, and Dean almost chokes. He has to bring a hand to his mouth to keep the half-chewed egg from shooting across the table as he laughs, and Hannah pats his back until he gets himself under control.

“Jesus Christ, Charlie!” He chuckles as she grins, but they don’t speak again as they dig in.

Dean doesn’t mention Meg’s comments again, and neither does Charlie and Hannah, but he can’t stop thinking about it as they wander through the gardens. 

He runs his fingers over the petals of the closest flower—a purple thing he doesn’t know the name of—his mind going over Meg’s words again and again. _Am I really only here for the show? _It’s the one thing turning over in his mind as Charlie and Hannah move further away. They do put a lot into that damn show, so it’s not impossible, he’d just like to think there’s more to his presence than appeasing the public.

Just thinking that Castiel’s motives aren’t entirely pure has his stomach twisting in knots and humiliation rising inside him. He doesn’t want to be used as a pawn in their games—he wants to be here because _ Castiel _wants him to be here, and he’ll be damned if anyone uses him to further their political agenda.

He stops walking and tilts his face to the cloudless sky. He needs to remind himself that Castiel has yet to even _ hint _ at that. Dean has no reason to think he’s being used, other than Meg’s vile words and his own insecurities, but Meg is _ trying _to get inside his head, and he knows his own lack of self-esteem can never be trusted.

He closes his eyes and breathes in deep, pushing those thoughts from his mind. He should just try to enjoy himself, no matter how much time he’s here. This is an experience of a lifetime, and there’s no way he’s going to pass it up just because some cruel bitch doesn’t think he’s good enough.

“Dean!” 

Dean’s head drops and he opens his eyes, finding himself much further back than he thought. Charlie and Hannah are a good ways off, closer to the barracks than they are to him, and they’re waving for him to hurry up.

“Yeah, yeah,” he murmurs, waving them off and jogging to catch up. He can hear swords clashing from inside—the sound of heavy boots stomping on the floor, and shouting, echo through the building. 

“Do you think we’re allowed in?” Charlie asks as she presses her ear to the door. Dean’s not sure why—they can hear everything that’s going on from where they stand.

“No,” he and Hannah say simultaneously, but Charlie pulls the door open a crack, anyway.

“I just want a peek…” Then she’s gone—inside the building and past the point of turning back. Dean takes a quick step forward, but he’s stopped by Hannah’s hand on his arm.

“You can’t—”

“I need to get her,” Dean interrupts, removing Hannah’s hand from his arm with a soft smile. “I’ll be fine.” He doesn’t wait for her response as he slips inside, his heart hammering as he turns, taking in the dark space and all the eyes trained on him. He’s immediately thankful for the dim lighting as his face flames bright red and he takes a step back, hitting the door as he meets all the annoyed faces.

“Can we help you?” one of the soldiers says, though Dean knows he’s not really asking—he wants an explanation, and Dean scans the room for Charlie so he can give him one.

“Uh, my friend... she just came in here—”

“So, you think that gives you permission to barge in, too?” The guy looks down at his sword, flipping it over in his big, meaty hands as he waits for an answer. 

Dean gulps, “N-no, I just… I came in to get her, and—” He cuts himself off when he sees the man raise an eyebrow. He steps forward, his bare chest glistening with sweat. Dean keeps his eyes trained there as the man stares him down.

“What’s your name?” The man asks, and Dean chances a glance up, meeting dark brown eyes. 

“Uh, Dean—Dean Winchester.” His voice is barely above a whisper, but the guy hears and he cocks his head to the side as his eyes narrow in on Dean’s.

“Dean Winchester,” he says a little louder, so the rest of the soldiers can hear, and a low murmur starts up among them. “The favorite.”

A smile breaks out over the guy’s face, and before Dean can ask what, exactly, he means by that, the guy’s hand lands on his back with a hard thump and he’s dragged further into the room. 

“I'm Victor, by the way. Captain in Amarellino's Royal Army." Dean nods, though he’s not sure what’s going on. He doesn’t fight it, though, following Victor as he leads him to the center of the long, open training area, his heart in his throat. “Guys!” he shouts, drawing the attention of the other soldiers, “Look who I’ve got! Mr. _ Dean Winchester_!” 

A loud whoop goes up around them, the sound echoing off the high rafters, and Dean is more confused than ever. “I don’t… I don’t get it,” he says, looking between them for answers.

“Get what?” Another of the soldiers asks—this one is scrawny, with a blond mullet and an easy smile.

“The whole,” Dean waves his arms around, trying to find the right way to say it. “The _ favorite _thing? Why is everybody calling me that?”

Victor looks at him like he’s stupid. “Because that’s what you are.”

When it’s obvious Dean still doesn’t get it, Victor sighs, his head dropping back on his shoulders before he looks at Dean. “The favorite. The one we’re all rooting for. You know, the one we want the Prince to choose.” He searches Dean's eyes, but Dean’s too shocked to answer right away. “Am I getting through?” 

Dean shakes his head to clear it. “Yeah… yeah, I get it. I just don’t… _ get it_. Why would you want _ me _to win?”

“Because you’re awesome, stupid!” Dean’s head snaps around as Charlie comes out of the back room with two mugs in hand. She passes one over to Dean and he sniffs it before taking a small sip. _ Mmm, coffee_. He takes a bigger sip before gulping down half the cup, burning his tongue in the process. “I’ve only been telling you since I met you—the people _ love _you!”

Dean nods but doesn’t speak again and, eventually, the soldiers go back to their training. Charlie collects Hannah, telling her to come inside, but Dean doesn’t move. He should be relieved by this news—being the favorite is a _ good _thing, right?—but it just reaffirms all his worst fears.

He’s the _ peoples’ _favorite, not Castiel’s, and he’ll be gone soon enough without even a fighting chance at finding love.

Just by sheer, dumb luck, Dean finds himself sitting next to Castiel during dinner that night, which also means there’s no chance to gossip with Charlie and Hannah about why Balthazar might be back. _ Why _was he taken from the palace this morning, only to return hours later looking chipper as ever?

Dean has so many burning questions, but he knows they won’t be discussed until dessert. So, he eats his meal and tries to think of anything to say to Castiel that won’t make him sound like a complete idiot. He comes up with nothing, so he talks to Charlie, instead.

They’ve been arguing for a good twenty minutes, shoveling food into their mouths around shouted conversation.

“There’s no way! No way in _ hell_—” Dean blushes and turns to Castiel. “Sorry,” he says, and Castiel just smiles, but Dean is already back to yelling at Charlie. “That you could eat more mashed potatoes than me.”

“You want to bet?” Charlie raises herself up in her seat, getting at eye level with Dean as he turns to face her.

His eyebrows shoot up. “Sure, I’d love some easy money.” He sets down his fork and holds up one hand, ready to tick off on his fingers. “For one, I’m like, three times your size, so if that doesn’t mean an easy win, I don’t know what does.” He ticks off the second finger. “For _ two_, I have more practice stuffing my face as full as I can get in the quickest amount of time, so there’s that—”

“Oh come on! You’re not allowed to use the hungry child excuse! It just makes me feel bad.” Charlie pouts as her shoulders slump, but Dean just rolls his eyes.

“Fact, baby. It’s just a fact.” He scoops some more buttery, cheesy potatoes from his plate and continues his counting. “And three,” he says, pausing for dramatic effect and holding up three fingers. He smirks when Charlie leans in close. “I’m just better.” 

Charlie’s top lip curls in disgust as she swats his hand away. “Fuck off, asshole!” She glances at Castiel. “Sorry, your highness,” she says, before turning her glare back on Dean, who has his head thrown back on a laugh.

“I think I would definitely place my bets on Dean.” Both Dean and Charlie stop laughing and turn to Castiel when he speaks. With his head tilted to the side and a barely-there flush on his cheeks, he looks adorable, and Dean can’t help but grin. 

“See?” he says to Charlie, smug as ever. “Even the Crown Prince has more faith in me than he does in you.”

“I don’t know about that. I’ve just seen how you both eat. I’ve never witnessed anyone put food away like you, Dean.” Castiel shrugs and even _ that _is delicate and refined, but Dean doesn’t have time to focus on it because Charlie is cackling, her head thrown back and eyes dripping with tears. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says, crossing his arms over his chest and trying to force a pout, but he doesn’t quite manage as a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. 

Their conversation drifts into silence as they turn back to their meals, and Dean is right in the middle of a bite of steak when Castiel speaks. “How was your day?” 

Dean’s almost too startled to answer—Castiel never talks, unprompted, during dinner—and he chokes back a cough, making sure to chew properly before swallowing the food in his mouth.

When he glances over at Castiel, he finds shy eyes and a tentative smile, and something in Dean’s chest melts a little. He takes a sip of water before he speaks. “It was fine.” He points over to where Hannah and Charlie are absorbed in conversation. “We went for a walk. Found the barracks.”

Castiel’s grin widens just a little. “Why do I feel like there’s a story there?”

“Oh, because there _ is_,” Dean says, smiling as he shakes his head. “Your soldiers aren’t exactly the most welcoming bunch. I swear, I almost pissed myself.”

Castiel raises an eyebrow, but his grin belies his surprise. The bastard. “Is that so? The armies are trained to be teddy bears, you know—soft and cuddly—so this is shocking news.” He scratches his jawline and Dean rolls his eyes. “I’ll have to have a word with them.”

“Smartass,” Dean says, before immediately slapping his hand over his mouth. He stares, wide-eyed, at Castiel, his cheeks burning beneath his palm. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, but Castiel is _ laughing_. And it’s so, _ so _beautiful. 

Dean is struck dumb for a moment as he watches the crinkles in the corners of Castiel’s eyes—how his cheeks lift and nose scrunches up with it. It’s almost enough to make him forget why Castiel is laughing in the first place.

“Truly, it’s fine.” 

Dean lets out a sigh of relief and stabs at his green beans. “So, how was your day?” he asks instead of acknowledging his fuck up as he fights with a stubborn bean.

“It was fine. The first of the dates was this morning.” Dean’s head snaps up at that, and he forgets all about the bean.

“Oh yeah? How was that?” Dean’s stomach does a weird little flip, but he tries to ignore it. He has no right to be jealous, after all.

Castiel looks down at his plate, where all the different foods are neatly organized into their own little sections—none of them touch, and Dean really shouldn’t be so surprised. 

“The date went well. I look forward to the next one.” Castiel doesn’t say anything more, but Dean is too curious.

“What’d you do?”

Castiel quirks an eyebrow—it’s a challenge, he knows. “I can’t give away all my secrets, now can I?”

Heat rockets through his veins, pooling low in his stomach, but he can’t tear his eyes away from the piercing blues staring through him. Dean raises an eyebrow and tilts his head to the side. “Such a tease, your highness,” he murmurs, and Castiel leans closer.

“I don’t tease, Mr. Winchester,” he says, his voice soft and serious, but the playful glint in his eyes gives him away. Dean’s stomach twists and twirls, his heart thundering in his chest as they hold each other’s gaze, not daring to be the first to look away.

A crash across the room shatters the moment, and Dean jumps, turning to see Balthazar sprawled on the floor, shouting and slurring, with a broken wine bottle laying not too far away. 

Castiel pushes to his feet, face impassive to anyone who looks, but Dean knows better—he can see the hard set to his jaw and the tension in his eyes as he leaves to deal with the mess. Dean turns back to his meal, ignoring the commotion. 

The moment is over, and they both know it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on Twitter at [allmystars_i](https://twitter.com/allmystars_i)  
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	5. WEEK ONE - Thursday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is really long, which is funny because it was supposed to be really short. Just like this fic. What is wrong with me?

“Ow, ow, ow! Stop!” Dean whines, jerking away from the torture device Susie uses on his eyebrows. “Why are you even doing this?” he snaps, glancing in the mirror and rubbing at the red and puffy skin around his eyebrow. She slaps his hand away.

“They’re atrocious! Stop moving before I poke your eye out!” Susie moves back in as Dean glares, and she rolls her eyes. “By accident, obviously. They’re your best feature, so sit still.” She grips his chin to make sure he obeys, getting right up in his face while ignoring his pout with steadfast determination.

“What’s this thing for, anyway?” he asks instead of whining some more, and Susie seems to appreciate it judging by her softer tone of voice when she answers him.

“The Prince would like to meet your families; this is the best way to do it.” She plucks another hair and Dean winces. “And to pledge allegiance to the Crown, of course.”

Dean already knows about the pledge of allegiance, but meeting the families? That was Castiel’s idea? After a moment, he clears his throat, feeling his cheeks flush as he looks anywhere but at Susie. “Do you think he’ll like my family?” His words are whisper-soft, but it’d be impossible for Susie not to hear with how close she is.

She doesn’t pause her work as she answers, but Dean sees her thoughtful expression. “If they’re anything like you?” She does stop then, pulling away to look him in the eyes. “No.” Then she’s back to work.

“Thanks,” Dean grumbles, rolling his eyes. “Really feeling the love, Suse.” He gets a cuff upside the head for that, but the hint of a smile she wears gives her away, and Dean’s grin spreads a little, too. 

He was told they'd have time for dinner. He was told wrong.

Dean stands in a lineup with the rest of the suitors, his hands folded in front of him. He looks dapper, as Susie puts it, in a deep maroon suit with a scowl on his face. He’s fucking hungry, and his stomach isn’t letting anyone forget it as it rumbles its displeasure for all to hear.

They’re being clipped with microphones since this, too, will be broadcasted, but all Dean can think about is the headache starting up in his temples. He’s irritable and upset and he just wants to_ eat. _

“Mr. Winchester!” Susie hisses as she approaches, a scowl on her face to match Dean’s. “Stop being angry! Wrinkles!”

Dean just deepens his frown, staring her down instead of making an effort like he usually would. 

Susie huffs, stepping forward and stretching up on her tippy-toes to smooth out the line on his face. It doesn’t work, and she glowers at him, hands on her hips but, eventually, her face softens. 

“I know you’re upset, Mr. Winchester.” He gives her a stiff nod. “But there’s nothing I can d—” She cuts herself off, looking behind Dean as her face lights up. “Give Susie a minute,” she says, holding up one finger, then she rushes off. Dean rolls his eyes on a sigh, not bothering to watch her go.

He ignores the other suitors, who are still being primped and preened before the ball. He knows the reason he didn’t get dinner is that the others are running behind, so now he has to stand here, waiting, while everyone else rushes around.

The only upside he can see to this whole shindig is he gets to see his family. He hasn’t seen them in almost a week, which really doesn’t seem all that long, but it’s the longest he’s spent away from them, like,_ ever_.

His stomach rumbles again, but that’s not what snaps him out of his thoughts. It’s the sound of his own name spoken right in front of him.

Dean’s head snaps up and he meets Castiel’s eyes. They’re unreadable as he stands there in his royal robes—shimmering white and blue gems dripping from the lavish fabric. He has an eyebrow quirked, almost tucking itself under his crown, and Dean’s back straightens, his chin lifting as his eyes drop down to the floor.

“Please, follow me,” Castiel says, and his voice is smooth like silk. He turns on his heel, not waiting for Dean to collect himself, and Dean hurries to catch up, following the swish of robes skimming across the polished floors.

Nerves flutter in Dean's stomach. What’s this about? Did he do something wrong? He wracks his brain for anything, and so many things come to mind. _ Sneaking out of his room at night… breaking into the barracks with Charlie… wandering the palace… _

It could be any of them, and Dean panics, suddenly terrified that he’s being sent home. Maybe they think having him at the ball will be an embarrassment? Maybe something’s happened with his family and he needs to go home? Maybe—

Dean’s thoughts scratch to a halt when he steps into a room off the main corridor, and he slows to a stop when he sees the spread of food.

“What…?” His eyes trail off the table and over to Castiel, whose face remains impassive and emotionless, but there’s a glint in his eyes as he waves a gloved hand at one of two chairs.

“I was told you were hungry and there’s too much food for me alone.” Castiel pulls out a chair for Dean, who takes it almost without a thought.

“Who… told you?” 

Castiel takes his seat across from Dean, and now there’s definitely a smile on his face. “Well, your scowl, for one.” One side of his mouth lifts as his eyebrow raises. Dean’s cheeks flame as his stomach flutters. “But it was Susie who informed me of your sour mood. She asked me if there was any possible way to get you something to eat before you bite the heads off my staff.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean blurts, ashamed of his lack of restraint, but Castiel shakes his head. 

“Nothing to apologize for.” He smiles up at the servant who loads his plate with a grilled chicken breast, cheesy mashed potatoes, and steamed green beans. Dean does the same when the man comes around to him. “I’m sorry you weren’t taken care of to the level that I expect. I’ll have to talk to the people who organized this.”

“What about the others?” Dean asks, trying not to sound ungrateful, though he’s worried that the other suitors are hungry, too.

“Their stylists started after lunch, whereas Susie worked right through, am I correct?” Dean nods and Castiel smiles a half-smile. “That’s what I thought. They were given the opportunity to eat earlier, which is why they aren’t finished yet.” Castiel cuts his chicken into precise squares before popping a piece into his mouth. Dean watches as he chews, taking a bite of his own chicken after a moment’s hesitation. 

He tries not to inhale his food, but it’s hard. He’s so hungry, and it smells _ so _ good, but he’s with _ Castiel, _and eating like a caveman is frowned upon in even the lowliest of circumstances. 

They eat in relative silence, which would normally bother Dean since he’s such a talker, but right now, he’s too hungry, so most of his focus goes into not embarrassing himself.

“Who am I to meet of your family tonight?” Castiel asks when his plate is clean, and the servants take it away. 

Dean pauses, covering his mouth as he chews and swallows, before taking a sip of water. “Um, my mom and dad, I think. Probably Sammy, too. Sammy’s my little brother.” Dean’s grin widens as love softens his heart. “Well, I say little, but he’s definitely catching up,” Dean says, holding a hand up by his ear, indicating how tall Sam is.

Castiel’s smile widens, his eyes growing warm as he tilts his head. “How old is your brother?”

“He’s fourteen.” Dean wipes his mouth with the corner of his napkin and scowls at the makeup stain that comes away with it. It’s only a small bit, though—he doubts anyone will notice. “I was the accident, actually. My parents planned on Sam. Ten years is a big gap, though.”

Castiel chuckles, nodding as he, too, wipes at his mouth with a napkin—his comes away just as pristine as before. “Yes, I understand. The gap between myself and my youngest sibling is fourteen years.”

“Hael, right?” Dean cocks his head to the side, his stomach flip-flopping when Castiel’s grin grows into a full-blown, brilliant smile. 

“Yes,” he says with a nod. “She’s a feisty one, but I love her dearly.” 

Dean can tell. Castiel’s eyes shine with the love he speaks of, much like Dean feels for Sam. They’d both do anything for their sibling, and the realization has Dean feeling all the more connected to the Crown Prince.

Susie grumbles in his ear about smudged makeup as she touches it up, but Dean doesn’t have it in him to apologize. He had a great time with Castiel, and it’s all he can think about now that he’s back in the lineup with the other suitors.

His spirits are high and he can’t keep the smile off his face for more than a few seconds at a time—he looks ridiculously smitten and, judging by the dirty looks shot his way by almost all the others, they know why.

The party sounds like it’s in full swing beyond the double doors in front of them, but Dean knows it’ll come to a halt as soon as they open. They’ve all been instructed on what to do when they enter, making it as grand and unnecessary as possible.

They are to enter in a line and walk up to the dais where the king and queen sit to pledge their allegiance to the crown, before moving to either side of the aisle to wait for Castiel to be announced. Castiel will make a speech and then the night will continue on.

It’s a whole lot of fanfare for a glorified party, but Dean supposes it _is_ a royal party.

With that realization smacking him in the face, panic swells inside him. He swallows hard a few times, squeezing his eyes shut as his heart races and his hands sweat. He can’t do this. This is too much—too big—and he just_ knows _he’s going to screw up and make a fool of himself and his family. He tucks his chin and wraps his arms around his torso to try to calm down, but nothing is working.

Then, Susie places a hand on his arm and whispers in his ear, “I think I did the best job; you are the most handsome of them all.”

Dean blinks a few times before looking down at her smiling face, and something about it calms him. He definitely doesn’t_ feel _ like he belongs here, but he knows, because of Susie, he _ looks _like he does, and that makes all the difference.

“Thank you,” he whispers, genuinely grateful to have her here.

She waves him off and takes a step back, still smiling, though not as wide—it’s gone soft and fond. “Just don’t go screwing up your makeup again, Mr. Winchester.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but his stomach has settled and he smiles. “I’ll do my best,” he says and shoots her a wink.

Then, the doors swing open and the trumpets play as the crowd splits in two, allowing the suitors to enter as they were all taught. Dean is at the back of the line since his name was the last called but, in his nervousness, he forgets to watch what happens with the suitors before him. 

When there’s no one else in front of him, and he’s standing there, facing the king and queen with no idea what to do, his blood freezes, mouth hanging open as his mind goes blank of everything but the fact that he_ doesn’t know what to do_. 

The room is silent, not a peep of noise filling the air—which has been sucked from his lungs—and Dean just stares at the king and queen. King Charles’ face tightens, but a small, reassuring smile turns up the corners of his lips as he gives an almost imperceptible nod.

Queen Naomi glares, her mouth tightening in displeasure as Dean takes a stumbling step forward.

“To one knee, please,” a guard murmurs in Dean’s ear, and Dean drops immediately, one knee on the polished marble floor as he ducks his head in respect. The same guard pulls up his scroll and reads loud and clear for all the guests to hear. “Do you, Dean Winchester, pledge thine allegiance to the crown?”

Dean jerks his head in a nod before catching himself and clearing his throat. “I do.” He flinches as something is placed over his head, coming to rest on one shoulder and under the opposite arm. He looks down, his breath snagging when they catch on the golden sash, made from the finest silk and sapphires. _ The mark of an ally_, Dean realizes as his fingers stroke the smooth material.

Another throat clears, this one harsh and feminine, and Dean’s gaze snaps up to the queen, who is staring daggers at him. 

Dean blushes and hurries to his feet. He bows his head before scurrying to his place on the right side of the aisle across from Kelly and closest to the throne where Castiel will be seated when he enters.

The grand ballroom—easily filled with two hundred people—falls into a hush so absolute chills race down Dean’s spine as they wait for the doors to open one more time.

Then the trumpets sound, the doors swing open with a flourish, and Castiel steps forward in all his princely glory, filling the room with his presence—a crackling energy that’s impossible to ignore.

Dean’s back straightens, his breath stuttering from his lungs, as he watches Castiel; so regal and unapproachable, but Dean knows better, and his heart swells with pride as Castiel walks with a refined grace across the polished marble, his head held high—his face, calm and impassive.

Dean doesn’t look away for even a second, though he knows the rest of the room is in awe. The Crown Prince doesn’t show himself to the public often, so this is truly a treat to most in attendance. 

Dean doesn’t even notice he’s smiling until his cheeks start to ache, but he doesn't stop because he can see it all now—King Castiel James Charles Novak of Amarellino, the first of his name. He’ll make a great king—the_ best _king—and Dean can’t wait to see it, whether he’s at Castiel’s side, or not.

Castiel is only feet from him when his eyes shift over, meeting Dean’s for the briefest moment before moving away again, but not before Dean catches the hint of a smile. He feels the blush coloring his cheeks, but he can’t look away as Castiel turns to face the crowd.

“Welcome.” Castiel’s smile is slight, and Dean can’t help but miss the one from dinner. “I thank you all for making it here tonight, and I hope you enjoy your time in the palace.” His eyes flick to meet every suitor, smiling softly before pausing on Dean as he addresses only the eleven of them, but loud enough for the room to hear. “My gratitude is immense. Having all of you here, away from your families, and willing to get to know me is the greatest compliment, and I hope I can do justice to your expectations.” 

Castiel says the last part only to Dean. At least, that’s how it feels since he looks only at him. There’s a pause, then Castiel looks away as he continues to speak.

“Though tonight we celebrate, we must remember what the cost of entry affords the kingdom. The price of admission will go to feeding the hungry and housing the homeless. This is what we come here to do, and I thank you all for your generosity.” When Castiel finishes, the room erupts. Cheers and applause fill the space, and Dean is among them, smiling as wide as he can—proud of the man in front of him.

They break away after that, free to move off and find their families. Most don’t, deciding to crowd around Castiel as he sits on his throne, directly to the right of his father’s.

Dean looks for his family.

The crowd of guests don’t pay any attention to him as he moves through them, but the cameras do. There’s at least one on him at all times, and he’s not sure it’s something he’ll ever get used to.

“Excuse me,” Dean says as he brushes past a particularly round man. The guy doesn’t hear him and steps back, right onto Dean’s toes. “Fuck!” he shouts, wincing as his toe throbs. 

“Watch where you’re going,” the guy says without turning around. He thrusts an empty champagne flute at Dean. “Get me another one, would you?” 

“Get it yourself,” Dean snaps, and he doesn’t wait for the guy to turn around, but he hears the muttered_ fuck _when the guy sees that Dean isn’t a member of the wait-staff he thought he was talking to. “Dick,” Dean murmurs under his breath as he pushes past more clusters of people, not bothering to be polite now as annoyance simmers inside him. 

All these people—they’re not here for the hungry or the homeless. They couldn’t care less. All they want is an in with the royal family—maybe with each other—and they’ll pay any price to get it.

With his foot still throbbing, Dean stops in the middle of the room, pushing up on his tippy-toes and craning his neck, searching for Sam’s shaggy head of hair.

“Dean!” 

Dean’s head snaps around, happiness bursting in his chest at the familiar voice, and a smile curves his lips. Any residual anger lingering inside him melts away when Sam pushes through the people and launches himself at Dean. Dean pulls him into a tight hug, giving him a noogie and holding him under one arm as he fights to get away.

“The hair, Dean! Stop!” Sam cries, shoving at Dean’s stomach as their parents make it through the crowd.

Dean lets him go with a chuckle and rolls his eyes as Sam’s hands fly up to fix his hair. 

“Hi, Mom,” Dean says, pulling her into his arms. She smells like home—like old cookbooks and woodsmoke—and Dean’s heart aches just a little. He’s missed home. 

“Hey, baby,” she says, reaching up to pinch his cheeks, but he takes her hand in his, holding it back and scrunching his nose up at the pet-name. She doesn’t do much more than grin a little wider before grasping both his hands and holding him at arm's length. “Don’t you look wonderful!”

“Yeah, a regular fancy-pants,” Sam cuts in, and his dad smacks him on the back of the head.

“You look nice, son,” John says as he steps forward, pulling Dean into a rare hug. It’s brief, but enough to let Dean know how much he’s missed.

“Thanks.” Dean looks them over, noticing a glow to his mother that he hasn’t seen in years, and he swears Sammy’s grown another inch in the last week. His dad just looks proud. “You all look nice,” Dean says, returning the compliment, and he means it. His mom is in a beautiful, soft blue dress, with long, flowing sleeves and a conservative neckline—his dad wears his nice suit, and Sammy is in a newer one of Dean’s old suits. They all look damn good.

“Don’t think everyone agrees,” John mutters, glancing around at all the disdainful, not-quite-inconspicuous, stares. “Must think we’re the serving staff or something. Some damn fool already shoved their empty glass in my hand; he’s just lucky I didn’t break it over his head.”

Dean sighs as his good mood dampens. He expected this, but he had hoped people would be polite—at least, decent. Guess that’s too much to ask for.

John wanders off to find another drink and Sam chases after him. Mary turns to Dean, her eyes shining with concern in the rich, golden lights of the crystal chandelier. “They’re treating you well here, right?” She takes his hands in both of hers, giving his fingers a soft squeeze. 

Dean smiles, trying to be reassuring, but he doesn’t know if he quite gets there. “For the most part.” He shrugs; he can’t lie to his mother. “Some of the other suitors don’t think I should be here, but Casti—Prince Novak—is great.” Dean can’t help the warmth that bleeds into his cheeks when he thinks of Castiel. Butterflies flutter away in his stomach and he glances back to where he last saw Castiel, finding him still surrounded by a horde of people, all vying for his attention.

“You like the prince, then?” She cocks an eyebrow, a coy smile lifting the corners of her lips, and she squeezes his hands again before letting go.

Dean’s blush deepens. “He’s… yeah, Mom. I really like him.” Dean nods for good measure, forgetting all about the cameras watching his every move and recording his every word. He changes the subject. “I made some friends, too; I’m not completely alone. Oh! Here,” he snags Charlie’s arm as she walks by, ignoring her disgruntled yelp as he turns back to his mom. “This is Charlie.”

Charlie shoots him a glare as she straightens her hair, but she turns to his mother with a bright smile. “Nice to meet you, ma’am. Charlie Bradbury.”

Mary shakes her hand, an eyebrow raised. “Like, Bradbury Farms?”

“That’s the one,” Charlie says, nodding with a bright, charming grin. Dean can’t help but smile as they chatter on. He’s glad his friends like his family and, more importantly, that his family likes his friends.

  


Dean picks at his nails, head ducked, waiting for his turn to speak with Castiel. He wants to introduce his family, but he also knows Castiel’s probably tired of meeting new people. Nevertheless, he said he would like to meet them, which is why Dean’s still standing there, waiting for Castiel to look his way.

The man in front of Castiel is waving his arms like a madman, his face is bright red and his eyes bulge, but Castiel looks on impassively, his expression one of mild understanding and sympathy. After a few moments of listening, Castiel speaks. Dean watches his mouth move around the words, but he’s not close enough to hear over the music and the chatter. It must be enough to appease the man, though, because he nods and moves away, a smile on his face.

Dean definitely doesn’t imagine the relief in Castiel’s eyes when they lock on him, and a small smile graces his lips. 

“What can I do for you, Dean?” 

Dean fidgets, his hand moving to the back of his neck as he blushes. “I, uh—I know you’re busy, but…” He swallows, tilting his head to the side and scuffing his shoes on the floor. “I was wondering if you’d meet my family?”Dean cringes at the squeak in his voice, but Castiel doesn’t seem to notice as his smile grows. 

He nods, “Of course. I’d love to meet your family.” He looks to either side of Dean.

“Oh, I’ll go get them,” Dean says, pointing over his shoulder to where he knows they’re standing in their own little bubble of space—no one is even willing to brush shoulders with them.

“Nonsense,” Castiel says, waving Dean off with a gloved hand as he stands. “Bring me to them.” 

Dean is speechless for a moment, unable to move but, eventually, he gives a shaky nod and steps into the crowd, which parts for them. With every step they take, Dean can feel the crackle of awareness in the air; people are watching them—well, watching _ Castiel_—and Dean can’t help but notice the way every head turns.

He can feel eyes on the back of his head as he leads Castiel up to his parents, who are turned away, and he knows Castiel is watching him as he rests a hand on his mother’s shoulder.

“Mom? Dad?” They turn around, and his mom’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly when she clocks Castiel standing beside him. “This is Prince Castiel Novak,” Dean says, grinning, and turns to Castiel. “Cas, this is my mom and dad, Mary and John Winchester.”

His mom dips low in a curtsy and his dad ducks his head in an awkward bow. Castiel just nods as Dean stands there, watching it all unfold with a buzzing kind of energy in his veins. 

“Pleasure to meet you, your highness,” his mom says, fixing her golden hair as his dad tries not to scowl. 

“Pleasure is all mine,” Castiel replies, and his deep, rough-honey voice sends tingles down Dean’s spine. “Dean has told me so much about you, especially…” Castiel survey’s the group, but Sam’s not there. 

Dean’s cheeks flush bright red when Sam comes bounding up, his hair a mess and his tie loose around his neck. He’s grinning from ear to ear, and Dean just _ knows _he hasn’t seen Castiel yet.

“Dean! Dean, guess what! The guards told me they can sneak us some pie!” He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, grinning wide and bright as he ignores Dean’s glare and the tight shake of his head. “They tell me they've been sneaking you some at night, but they could do it now—”

“Sam, this is Castiel,” Dean blurts, loud and shrill as he turns to the prince, who is holding back a grin. Castiel quirks an eyebrow in Dean’s direction, but Dean glances away, his cheeks burning hotter than ever.

When Dean looks back to his little brother, he’s speechless, his mouth hanging open and his eyes wide. Dean rolls his eyes, but he gets it—Castiel has that effect on people.

“Uh, uh… uh—um,” Sam says, looking every which way before sticking out his hand to shake. Mary sucks in a breath, John throws both hands in the air, and Dean slaps Sam’s hand down. Castiel just stands there, staring at the youngest Winchester with something in his gaze that looks almost… fond.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sam. Dean has told me so much about you.” Dean smiles at that, endlessly grateful for his understanding, and Castiel shoots him a wink. 

They talk for a few minutes, Dean swaying closer to Castiel so their shoulders brush. He blames it on the tight space, but he knows that's a lie, and Castiel doesn’t move away, so neither does Dean. 

With every brush of their clothing, a thrill shoots through him, and he finds himself unable to pay attention to what’s being said. He’s so hyper-focused on Castiel’s arm against his, that he doesn’t even notice when the man himself says his name.

“Dean? _ Dean_,” Castiel says, and Dean jumps, turning wide eyes on Castiel. “I’m afraid I need to head back.” Castiel gives him a tight smile, his disappointment evident, and Dean’s displeasure swells up to match what he sees in the prince’s eyes. “It was lovely meeting you all, and I hope we get another opportunity to speak.” He smiles at Dean's family, giving each of them a short nod, before meeting Dean’s gaze one more time. “Dean.”

“Castiel,” Dean returns, a smile on his face as he nods. He watches Castiel as he walks back to his throne and, once again, the crowd parts for him before meeting back in the middle to hide him from view.

“I like him,” Sam states. “He’s a good guy.” 

Dean laughs, reaching out a hand to ruffle Sam’s hair, but he swats it away. “You don’t even know him.”

“What? You saying he’s_ not _a good guy?” Sam quirks a disbelieving eyebrow at Dean, telling him without words that that’s the biggest load of bull-crap he’s ever heard. 

Dean sneaks a peek over his shoulder, just barely catching a glimpse of the crown atop Castiel’s dark head of hair. He smiles and it’s soft—full of warmth. “He’s the _ best _guy,” he whispers, not quite loud enough for anyone to hear.

The music’s been playing for hours, loud and jazzy, but the crowd’s just reached the point of drunkenness to get them swaying and dancing. Dean swings Charlie around, their shoes squeaking and clothes flaring as they laugh and laugh, cheeks red and grins wide.

Dean hasn't had this much fun in a long time, and the only thing that would make it better is if _ Castiel _would dance, but he’s not so far gone as to make the mistake of asking.

The same can’t be said for everyone, apparently.

Meg is literally hanging off the side of Castiel’s throne as he leans away, a wary eye trained on her to make sure she doesn’t touch him while the guards are preoccupied with crowd control. Balthazar is sprawled out in the queen’s empty throne, nodding off with a champagne flute held between a finger and a thumb, swinging precariously over the marble floor.

But it’s April who won’t leave him alone. She keeps ducking down beside his head, whispering in his ear, and every time, he shakes his head _ no _with a polite smile. She pouts, then forgets and asks again, only for the cycle to continue as Castiel gets more and more annoyed.

Dean’s having a good time, though. Well, he _ was_, until a shout goes up from the direction of the rest of his family.

He stops where he spins, his head snapping up as his jaw tightens.

“This is a _ private _event, you know? Did you sneak in? Is that it?” The man leans in closer to Dean’s mother, but she doesn’t say anything. “I’m calling the guards.” He turns back as Dean lets go of Charlie's hand and starts shoving through the crowd. “Guards!” The man shouts, his paunchy stomach taking up more space than it has any right to as his hair-piece flops around his head. 

“We’re here with our son,” Dean’s father grates as he shoves the man back a step, away from Mary. Sam hides behind their father, though his wiry frame stretches to just about the same height.

“Oh, please. No one in their right mind would let the likes of _ you _in,” he slurs, calling again for the guards. Dean’s blood boils as he shoulders through the people blocking his path. They shout and shove back, though, and Dean has to use his boney elbows to get through.

“Guards! Oh, good. These… _ people _need to be escorted out—”

“Hey!” Dean shouts, finally breaking through, and he grabs the man’s shoulder, spinning him around so Dean can look him in the eye. “Who the fuck do you think you are?” he seethes, poking at the man’s chest. “What gives you the right—”

“I’ll have you know,_ boy_,” the man says as he straightens up, adjusting his suit and smoothing his hair. “I’m Gerald Gendenco, the president and CEO of Gendenco Grains.” He says it like it should mean something to Dean.

“I don’t care if you’re the CEO of the fucking moon; you need to leave my family alone.” Dean can feel his cheeks heating up, but not with embarrassment—he’s fucking pissed.

“Or what?” Gerald grins, sinister and threatening. “What will_ you _do? Because, from where I’m standing, I could destroy your family and not even lift a finger.” He raises an eyebrow, his smile triumphant, but as Dean opens his mouth to speak, another voice carries over his shoulder, and he closes his eyes.

“Is there a problem here?” Castiel asks as he steps up beside Dean. He meets Dean’s eyes, waiting, but Gerald speaks first.

“Well, yes, your highness. This family has snuck in and shouldn’t be here, and—”

“I’m speaking with Dean,” Castiel says, and Gerald’s jaw snaps shut, his eyes wide as he looks between the two of them. “Dean?”

Dean licks his lips and nods in Gerald’s direction as his heart hammers against his rib cage. “He’s insulting my family and trying to have them removed.” He doesn’t mention the threat, figuring it wouldn’t do any good, anyway.

“Is that so?” Castiel’s eyebrows jump, and his face is otherwise impassive, but Dean can see the anger burning behind his eyes as he turns on Gerald. His presence seems to swell around them, the air crackling with it as Castiel takes a step forward, forcing Gerald to move back. “These are my guests, Mr. Gendenco. What makes you think you have any say in how long they stay?”

Gerald holds up both hands as he stumbles back, panicked. “I-I-I didn’t—” 

“Are you suggesting my guards don’t have a handle on security? Or that my taste in companions is subpar?” Castiel doesn’t give him time to answer as his cold and steady voice fills the air once more. “Perhaps I don’t.” He nods at the guards waiting behind Gerald. “Have Mr. Gendenco escorted from the palace, please, and remove him from the guest list.” Castiel leans closer, getting in Gendenco’s face. “You don’t get to insult my guests in _ my _home, understood?”

“Y-yes, your highness. So s-sorry, y-your highness,” he stutters, before the guards lead him away. Castiel turns back to Dean’s family.

“My apologies; that was incredibly unacceptable.” Castiel bows his head, clear regret on his face, and Dean watches as his parents smile, forgiving. Dean’s hands still shake with rage, though, and his blood boils. He needs some air—he needs to get out.

Before Castiel can turn to him, Dean is shoving through the crowd, not caring that he’s being rude. He needs to get out before he hits someone.

When Dean pushes through the double doors and steps into the empty hallway, he’s panting, and he stops to shove both hands through his hair, not caring if he messes it up. He tilts his head back, feeling anger pulse through him in waves. God, how can people be such _ assholes_? Dean knew this would happen, he just didn’t think they’d be so vocal about it.

“Dean.”

Dean closes his eyes and drops his hands to his sides. “Not in the mood, Cas,” he whispers, though he knows Castiel won’t listen, so he turns on his heel and starts to leave, but Castiel catches his hand. He doesn’t even have to pull him to a stop because Dean freezes, his fingers flexing in Castiel’s as he's pulled around.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says, and he sounds so damn genuine that a lump lodges itself in Dean’s throat. He can’t look into Castiel’s eyes, so he looks at his feet, his hand still clasped between the prince’s fingers. “Dean,” Castiel says as he pulls him closer, and the leather of his glove squeaks. “I’m sorry. I knew this could happen, but I didn’t think they would be so open about it.” He looks around them, as if for answers. “I thought I could keep it from touching you, but—”

“It’s fine, really—”

“It’s_ not_.” Castiel tugs at his hand again before stepping forward and tilting Dean’s chin with a finger. “Nothing about anyone disrespecting you, or your family, is fine.” His eyes are intense on Dean’s, and Dean can’t look away. “I want you to tell me when it happens, okay? You’re my guest, and no one is to disrespect you.”

Dean nods, though he knows he won’t be telling Castiel every time someone makes a comment—he’d be searching him out every other minute of the day. Besides, he’s a big boy, he can handle it himself.

“Let’s get back inside, yeah?” Castiel drops his hands and takes a step away, but now he’s smiling, so Dean supposes it’s a fair trade. He’ll take what he can get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	6. WEEK ONE - Friday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things:
> 
> 1\. I hope all you Americans are happy because I had to look up temperature conversions just so y'all don't have to deal with Celcius  
2\. This chapter comes to you two days after the last one because I don't want to study for my exams  
3\. The description of Dean's suit is a link that leads to a picture of Dean's suit (I just learned how to do that and it's fun lol)
> 
> Anyway, I hope you like this chapter!

Dean lets out a heavy sigh as he lays on his back in the grass. He’s in the garden connected to his room, and he doesn’t much feel like leaving it. After having an entire sleepless night to think about the events of the ball, he’s convinced he'll be going home tonight.

He even made a list of reasons why:

1\. He fumbled all over the pledge of allegiance.

2\. No one liked him and, practically speaking, Castiel can’t marry someone the people don’t respect.

3\. There was the whole episode with Gerald that he doesn’t think he’ll _ever _live down.

And, 4. He’s just got this rotten feeling in his stomach that tells him everything’s not alright.

Which is why he’s being left alone, actually. Not even Susie dared to bother him and make him get dressed after he vomited up what was left in his stomach from the night before. Though now that he's thinking of it, that probably had more to do with her not wanting puke on his suits than feeling actual concern for his well-being.

Whatever the reason, he’s now lying in the middle of his garden, staring up at the grey sky, in his sleep clothes, which consist of silk sleep pants and nothing else. He did throw on a robe, though—the late September air tends to be chilly in the morning, despite the fact that it doesn’t ever get below fifty degrees even in the dead of winter.

Dean runs his fingers through the grass, feeling the damp earth soaking through his clothes, but he doesn’t care. It’s so nice out here, and he’ll miss it when he’s gone.

The sweet smells of fall drift into his nose, but it does nothing to calm the rioting in his stomach, so he listens to the waterfall, trying to focus on anything besides the crushing weight of uncertainty that’s trying to crush him.

“Mr. Winchester?”

Dean jumps, his eyes snapping open as his heart leaps into his throat, and he sits up.

A servant that Dean’s never met stands in the door to the garden. Her plain, beige clothes match those of the other servants, and Dean gives her a half-hearted smile when she holds out a tray.

“The prince sent this for you. It’s tea—to soothe your ailment. Herbal, I believe.” Dean blinks a few times as warmth suffuses him, spreading through his veins and up into his cheeks as he stands.

“Thank you,” he whispers, taking the tray from her with a smile. “Please, let the prince know I said so.”

“Of course.” She ducks her head and turns away, heading for the door and closing it behind her without another word.

Dean waits until she’s gone, then sits back down with the tray in the grass beside him. He has no plans to leave the garden until he’s forced from it—probably by Susie when she comes to get him ready for tonight’s ceremony.

Dean glances over the trey, noticing a small bowl of grapes, a plate of various cheeses, and an assortment of bread, crackers, and preserves. He smiles, thinking about the care put into his meal—the palace staff really are wonderful.

He brings the teacup to his lips, blowing away the steam before taking a small sip. “Mm,” he hums, surprised at how good it tastes. He’d expected it to be just as awful as his mother’s herbal teas, with a bitter aftertaste, but this was sweet and fresh—a little minty—and, best of all, Dean’s tumbling stomach calms by the time he tips the last of it down his throat.

“Thanks, Cas,” he whispers to no one, smiling as he pulls the tray closer and plucks up a piece of cheese and a cracker, shoving them both in his mouth so his cheeks puff out, making it hard to chew. He doesn’t care, though—the food is damn good, and he eats every last bite. 

He doesn’t think about what’s coming, and he certainly doesn’t think about the night before. The only thing on his mind is how nice this moment is—how much he wishes he had someone to share it with.

No one comes to check on Dean right up until the evening, and Dean tries not to be upset about that. It's not like he really expected all of his friends to crowd into his room and make sure he’s okay, but he at least expected Charlie to make an appearance.

“I don’t get it, Suse,” Dean says, his head tipped back as he sits in a tub of bubbles while Susie rinses the shampoo from his hair into a basin. “I was sick. Why didn’t they come to see me?”

“Well,” Susie says as she combs her fingers through his hair. “Did you call for them?”

Dean sticks out his bottom lip, “No.” He crosses his arms over his chest as she _tsks._

“What do you expect, boy? They’re not _mind readers_.” She taps the back of his head and he sits up, his pout still going strong as he watches the water swirl down the drain when Susie pulls out the plug.

“Yeah, your right,” he sighs, standing when he’s told and allowing the shower-head to rinse away all the bubbles and oily crap that was in the water. Susie squeezes some soap onto a loofa and scrubs it over his back—it smells like spearmint and cinnamon, and Dean can't say he doesn't like it. Dean hasn’t quite gotten used to the baths yet, but he doesn’t feel quite so humiliated anymore. Perhaps because Susie’s like a mother to him—or, at least, an aunt. She doesn’t give a rat’s ass about his nudity, so he’s learning not to care, either.

“You bet your butt, I’m right,” Susie huffs, and Dean chuckles, shaking his head as Susie scrubs over his legs and down to his feet. When Susie’s finished rinsing Dean off, she tosses him a towel. “Dry off while I get your clothes, then sit in that chair.” She points to the chair in front of what she calls the _vanity_.

Dean complies, though his stomach flip-flops when he looks at the clock on the wall—not long now.

He wraps the towel around his waist and sits in his chair, keeping his eyes averted from his reflection in the mirror. He knows he’ll just start comparing himself to everyone else—picking apart all his flaws and making himself sick—so he stares at his hands, instead. The perfectly trimmed and buffed nails; calloused palms from hard work in the mechanics shop down the street from his house; that hook-shaped scar on his pinky-finger that he got while fishing when he was eleven. _Strong, capable hands_, he thinks. _Working hands_. It doesn’t really make him feel any better.

Dean jumps when the hairdryer roars in his ear, and he glances up to the mirror, catching Susie’s deep brown eyes for half a second before she tilts his head back and starts drying his hair. He closes his eyes, letting himself sink into the comfort of fingers running over his scalp—his mother used to do that, and it never failed to put him right to sleep.

He doesn't nod-off now, though. His mind races with all the goodbyes he’s sure he’ll have to say at the end of the night, and he’s not even sure which one will be the hardest.

When Susie is done drying his hair, she runs some Gell through it, styling it nicely so he looks presentable. He thinks maybe his goodbye to Susie will be harder than he expected—he’s grown fond of her in the last week, and he knows she likes him more than she lets on.

“Susie,” Dean starts, but he cuts himself off when she pulls him from the chair and moves him to his pedestal.

“What don’t you understand about _dry off_?” Susie mutters under her breath as she wipes away a few drops of water that Dean missed. Dean grins, lifting his arms as she scrubs him dry one more time.

“Susie—”

“What’s up, bitches!” Dean’s head snaps up and his hands fly to cover his junk when a head of red hair pokes around the corner. “Dean, you feelin’ better?”

“Charlie! Get out!” Dean squeaks, curling in on himself before snatching the towel from Susie’s hands.

“Oh, please. Your willy isn’t the first I’ve seen.” She rolls her eyes and takes a seat in the corner, her legs crossed and hair in curlers. Dean’s certain she’s not supposed to be here, and he’s almost positive she snuck away.

“Put on your briefs, Mr. Winchester. We don’t have time for your modesty.” Susie thrusts them into his hands as she gathers a garment bag from his bedroom and hangs it on a hook. “I don’t want to hear any complaints from you,” Susie says, and Dean groans as he steps into his underwear and pulls them up his legs.

“So, it’s ugly and I’m going to hate it,” he mumbles under his breath, and Charlie laughs from her corner as she straightens out her shimmery red gown. “Great.”

“What did I say?” Susie snaps, a scowl in her face that rivals the worst of the soldiers in the barracks. “No complaints.” Charlie covers her mouth with a hand as Dean glares at her, though he’s sure it loses something since he's in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs.

“So, you feeling better?” Charlie asks after a moment.

“Yeah,” Dean says, nodding as he watches Susie pull a [deep green, square-printed suit](https://flic.kr/p/2hUEyBS) jacket from the bag. It’s actually pretty nice, but he’ll be damned if he admits it to her. “Cas sent me some tea and it worked like a charm.” He doesn’t mention the snacks, but Charlie’s ears perk up anyway.

“Cas? You’re on a nickname basis now?” She quirks an eyebrow, a smirk tilting her lips as she kicks off her sparkly black heels and leans forward, her elbows on her knees.

Dean blushes, his face burning hot as she stares him down. “He, uh…um, Cas, he..._Castiel_—” Dean stops before he can embarrass himself even more and just shrugs.

Charlie’s attention is drawn away, though, when Susie brings the suit over. “_What_ is _that_?” She cackles, and Dean just can’t help himself.

“_See_?” he shouts, looking between Susie’s trademark scowl—though it’s cranked up to a hundred now—and Charlie, who is clutching her stomach with her head tipped back.

“Get her out!” Susie shouts, shooing Charlie away. “Get the redhead _out_!” Charlie narrowly avoids the swatting hands as she scoops up her shoes and makes a run for it, her bare feet slapping on the marble floors all the way back to her room. 

Dean doesn’t dare to say anything as Susie dresses him, muttering under her breath. She tugs at his clothes a little harder than she has to, jerking him around as she pulls his pants up his legs—forces his arms into the sleeves of a white button-down—and a waistcoat is pulled up over his shoulders.

Dean is dressed in record time, but it’s more than obvious that Susie isn’t happy—she’s pouting over by the cufflink drawer, and Dean knows he needs to say something.

“Suse,” he calls, straightening his jacket and trying not to marvel at the way the deep green makes his eyes pop.

“What do you want?” she snaps, her accent thick, and Dean looks over at her, but she’s still staring into the jewelry box.

“Thank you,” he says, and it’s so soft and timid he’s not sure she hears, but she turns after a moment, giving him a stiff nod as she smooths a hand over her chestnut hair, which is pulled back in a severe-looking bun. “I mean it. I don’t know what I’d do without you here to help me.”

“You’d look homeless, that’s what.” Dean chuckles as she clips on a pair of gold cufflinks and folds a handkerchief into his breast pocket.

“You know you love me,” Dean says, sticking his tongue out at her when she huffs, but there’s a hint of a smile on her face.

“Yeah, yeah.” When Susie’s finished dressing him, she makes him sit back at the vanity. “I need to do your makeup; make you look camera pretty.”

Dean sighs, tilting his face up to her as she digs through a large set of drawers. “Kind of a bummer that I won’t have you to make me pretty every day once I'm gone.”

“Once you’re—?” Susie stops, staring him down for a moment, and it almost looks like she’s calling him an idiot without actually saying the words. Dean frowns, tilting his head to the side.

Surely she doesn’t think he’s staying long?

But she just takes his chin between a finger and thumb, tilting his head higher as she gets to work. “Don’t _move_.”

Dean’s never been in this room before, with its low lighting and glass doors that open up into a beautiful garden. He can smell the chill in the air—feel it when the breeze shifts—but, otherwise, it’s beautiful, with columns interspersed throughout, and vines climbing the walls at every turn.

They don’t waste time getting them set up on the tiered platforms, five at the front and six at the back. Dean is in the back right corner, half-blocked from view by a column, but he doesn’t mind—it’s harder for the cameras to catch his nervousness this way.

After they’re in place, they wait…and wait…and wait. There’s a whole lot of rushing around going on, but it doesn’t actually look like anything is getting done. Cameramen set up equipment, before taking it all down again, just to set it up somewhere else, and Mick is running around like a chicken with his head cut off.

Beside him, Balthazar looks like he’s about to pass out and Dean has to steady him a few times so he doesn’t topple backward off their platform. In front of him, Kelly and Sarah are gossiping about Castiel and how he might wear his hair; Charlie looks damn bored over on the far end of the first platform, and Meg doesn’t seem to be able to stop complaining for even a minute.

Dean decides that this top's of the list of unpleasant things he’s had to do while here—okay, so maybe the baths are worse, but right now…?

No, the baths are definitely still worse.

“Alright, and we’re rolling!” Mick shouts, and Dean’s back straightens as he folds his hands in front of him, watching the door where he knows Castiel will emerge.

Dean’s stomach summersaults, dipping, and diving—threatening his dinner—when the doors crack open and Castiel steps through in a simple black suit with a sapphire tie to match the ten long-stemmed roses on the table waiting to be given out.

Dean doesn’t look at them, though—he can’t seem to tear his eyes away from Cas. The man is fucking _beautiful_ and his eyes shine like gems with that tie. Dean knows he probably looks like a lovesick puppy, but he just doesn’t care. 

The room falls into silence as Duma steps in front of the camera, speaking in a crisp, professional tone. “Tonight is the first of our selection ceremonies, where ten suitors will receive a rose, and one will not. The sapphire rose represents both the color and flower of Amarellino, and the prince’s dedication to getting to know you better. At the end of tonight, one of you will be going home, and on behalf of the royal family, we would like to thank you for being here.”

With that, she turns to Castiel, who takes his cue and reaches for a single rose, twirling it between his fingers as he meets each of their gazes in turn.

“It has been wonderful getting to know all of you so far, and I am looking forward to the weeks to come." His gaze shifts, moving over to Dean before looking away again. "The person I have chosen to go home tonight is one that I do not believe is well suited for the kind of life that must be led as a member of the royal family. Though this person has a wonderful spirit and a kind heart, I must make difficult decisions for my kingdom, and this is one of them.”

Dean’s stomach drops to the floor. He’s talking about him—Castiel is talking about _him_. Dean has to force air in and out of his shriveled lungs and it hurts so bad he could cry, but he keeps it together, lifting his chin and staring right through the wall as the first name is called.

“Hannah,” Castiel says, and Dean doesn’t look to see his smile, though he’s happy that Hannah gets to stay. She steps off the front platform and glides over to Castiel, her royal heritage apparent in every step. “Hannah, will you accept this rose?”

“I will,” she whispers, taking the rose from Castiel’s fingers—careful not to touch—before heading back to her spot, just as they were taught to do.

Castiel picks up the next rose, but Dean blocks out the names after that. He doesn’t watch as shimmering dresses—and one fine suit—make their way over to Castiel to accept their rose. All he can think about is how he’ll never really get a chance to say goodbye to anyone. He’ll be whisked away as soon as the cameras get their footage, and he’ll never see any of them again.

Dean glances over to the table after a bit and his heart stop because it’s _empty_—the final rose is twirling away between Castiel’s fingers. Dean swallows back the sinking feeling in his gut and looks at his shoes—he can’t bear to watch as Castiel says someone else’s name.

Dean’s pulse thuds in his ears and he’s acutely attuned to Castiel, even though he doesn’t look up. The room is so quiet, Dean can hear the ticking clock on the wall to his left, and the sound of Castiel’s inhale as he prepares to speak.

Dean cringes away from the name, anticipating…knowing…hoping beyond hope… Then—

“Dean.” 

The name is like a bomb dropped in the room—theirs a ringing in Dean’s ears, but everything is silent. He realizes every person in the room was expecting him to go home, too, and a flare of defiance lights in his chest when he sees the shock written all over their faces.

Dean fixes his suit, steeling himself as he steps off the platform and approaches Castiel, righteous anger boiling inside him.

But it all disappears when he looks up, meeting Castiel’s eyes for the first time that day. He remembers every moment they’ve spent together in the last week—all the meals shared, and conversations had—and he can’t help but think his worry was all for nothing.

A smile creeps across Castiel’s lips when Dean stops in front of him, wearing a matching grin as he waits for Castiel to speak.

“Dean,” Castiel says, quirking an eyebrow. “Will you accept this rose?” His smile turns playful like they're sharing a private joke, and Dean decides it’s a good look on him.

He nods, his smile growing as he cocks his head to the side, biting his bottom lip as butterflies flutter in his stomach. “Yes,” he whispers, taking the rose from Castiel’s hand—their fingers brush, but neither of them seems to care as they linger for a moment longer, skin touching skin, before Dean pulls away. A giddy feeling lights up his insides as he steps back up to his spot, staring down at the single, perfect rose clutched in his hand. Its thorns have all been cut off, leaving the stem smooth, and Dean twirls it between his fingers just like Castiel did before.

Dean glances up when a hand touches his shoulder. “Mr. Winchester? Please step to the side.” Dean does, scrambling out of the way as two guards latch onto a swaying, half out-of-it Balthazar and lead him off the platform.

“What…?” Balthazar glances around, his eyes opening wider as he starts to struggle. “What about me? Where’s my rose?” he slurs, looking at Castiel as he fights harder. “Where’s mine?” Castiel ducks his head as Balthazar is led out, his shouts carrying down the hall.

“A toast!” Duma calls, distracting them from Balthazar's exit and getting the ceremony back on track as champagne flutes are passed out and they’re all herded closer together.

Castiel smiles, holding up his own glass, and they follow suit. “To you,” Castiel says, simply put, and the rest of the suitors repeat after him, raising their glasses as well. Except for Dean, who’s too busy staring into Castiel’s eyes, and if he wasn’t watching so intently, he would’ve missed it—the way Castiel looks right at him and mouths _to you_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on Twitter at [allmystars_i](https://twitter.com/allmystars_i)  
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Follow me on Instagram @allmystars_i


	7. WEEK ONE - Saturday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to anyone trying to read my other WIP. It's hard to write and not as much fun as this one, so here's another chapter *tosses it and runs away*
> 
> Also, this one is fairly long, too.

When Dean wakes on Saturday morning, it’s with the sun shining through his bedroom windows and a feeling of calm in his chest. He’s still here, which means Castiel _wants _him here, despite what everyone else thinks of him.

He takes a moment to soak in that feeling, closing his eyes to the light and letting himself sink into the soft bedding. There isn’t much to do today—only his second personal interview and a phone call home on the schedule—so he takes his time getting up and dressed.

That’s the other thing he loves about Saturday’s—he’s actually allowed to dress himself. Of course, Susie will still be in later to do his makeup for the interview, but he takes joy in searching through his closet, though there isn’t much in there that could be described as _casual_.

A pair of stiff, never before worn blue jeans and a black button-up it is, then.

Dean dresses quickly, not bothering with a shower, and heads out for breakfast. He can smell it all the way down the hall, and his mouth waters—cinnamon and sausage. He’d bet his right hand that they’re having french toast.

Dean grins when he steps into the dining room and plops himself down in the only remaining seat—the eleventh having been taken away—between Charlie and Hannah.

“Was wondering when you’d show up,” Charlie says around a mouthful of syrupy french toast, her cheeks puffing out like a chipmunk as she chews.

“You think I’m getting a chance to sleep in and _not _taking it?” Dean scoffs, loading his plate up with a stack of french toast and sausage links.

Hannah covers her mouth as she laughs, her eyes shining with humor, but then she looks at what Dean is wearing and her smile disappears, dropping into a frown in a blink. “What are these?” she asks, poking his thigh with a manicured nail, and Dean looks down, expecting a bug, or, maybe a spot of something, but sees only his jean-clad leg.

“My jeans?” He glances up before flicking his eyes back to his pants.

“No shit, dumbass,” Charlie says, stealing a sausage from his plate while he’s distracted. He swats at her hand but doesn't really fight too hard to get it back. “She knows what jeans are, but why are you wearing them?”

Dean rolls his eyes as he starts into his food, cutting the toast up into squares before drenching them in syrup. God, it smells heavenly. “Fuck if I know. I thought they’d be comfy but they’re itchy as hell and too damn tight in the ass.” Dean sets his cutlery down as something occurs to him. He turns to Hannah. “Do royals wear jeans?”

Hannah opens her mouth to answer, but before anything comes out of her mouth, Dean turns back around to face Castiel, who sits across from him, minding his own business and eating his breakfast with practiced decorum.

“Hey, Cas! Quick question—d’you wear jeans?”

Castiel looks up from his plate, his eyes wide, but he gathers himself quickly and clears his throat to speak. “No, I can’t say I do.”

Dean nods, pursing his lips. “Yeah, I didn’t think so.” Dean stands, twisting around in the scratchy, uncomfortable pair he’s got on. “‘Cause these are terrible jeans.”

Castiel quirks an eyebrow, one side of his mouth lifting in a smirk, and his gaze trails over Dean’s denim-clad ass—discreetly, of course. “Your…_jeans _are uncomfortable?” There’s a hint of mocking in his tone, but Dean just grins—wide and teasing.

“That’s what I said, yeah.” He can feel the eyes of everyone in the room on him right now—suitors, camera-crew, and servants, alike. They must think he’s crazy, and he suspects that maybe they’re right. His heart races in his chest and that giddy feeling from the night before is back, but Castiel just gives him a quick nod—his smile hidden behind his napkin as he wipes his lips—and goes back to eating his breakfast.

“I’ll make sure to have that sorted right away.” That’s it. Dean blinks a few times, startled, and sits back in his seat, deciding to ignore his abruptness and dig into his breakfast with renewed interest as everyone continues to stare, jaws slack with disbelief.

“What the hell was that?” Charlie hisses in his ear, bent close so no one hears. Dean glances over, watching as her eyes flick back and forth between his—left, right, left, right—and he shrugs, an innocent smile pulling at his lips before he turns back to his breakfast. He doesn’t really have an answer, and he’s not sure why he feels so good about it either, but now, every time he looks across the table at Castiel—even when Castiel's eyes are trained on his french toast and cantilope—there’s a tiny little smile on his lips.

“At least tuck the shirt in,” Hannah complains for the fourth time. Dean rolls his eyes, but gives her that much, though not without making his annoyance known.

“Jeez,” he says with a huff, stopping in the middle of the grounds to shove his shirttails inside his pants. “Happy?”

She eyes him for a minute, one hand up by her mouth as she contemplates the sloppy shirt, before stepping forward and adjusting the tuck.

“Are you kidding me?” Dean holds his hands out to both sides, his exasperation clear as he lets her do what she wants.

“You’re in the palace,” she scolds. “You need to look like it; it’s bad enough you’re wearing _jeans_.”

Dean laughs as he turns away, but it's bitter and annoyed, and he pulls out his shirt just to spite her before hurrying to catch up with Charlie. Hannah shouts after him, but he ignores her—he’s not about to change who he is just to meet someone else’s expectations of how he should be and it’s best if she learns that now.

“So,” Dean says as he catches up to Charlie. “Horses?”

“You bet!” She grins, flinging her hair over her shoulder as she skips up to the stables with Dean following close behind. Dean can feel Hannah's gaze on the back of his neck, and he lags behind a bit, waiting for her to catch up.

“Dean?” Hannah says, her voice soft and hesitant as she lays a hand on his shoulder. He turns to face her, but doesn't speak—he's not mad, but he does wish she could respect who he is. “I’m…I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t upset you.”

Dean smiles, giving her a lopsided shrug. “Nah, it’s good." He lifts an eyebrow and tilts his head. "Just,” he makes sure to meet her eyes. “Don’t try to change me, okay? I know you’re used to a certain standard of dressing, but so am I.” He shrugs again.

Hannah’s cheeks color as she ducks her head. He doesn't think he's ever seen a member of any royal family _ashamed _before. They're not really known for being overly apologetic. “I apologize. I forget sometimes—”

“Ain’t no thing,” he assures her and catches her hand as he walks backward, tugging her into the stables after him. “C’mon. We’ve got horses to ride.”

Dean’s finally getting a handle on this whole _horse-riding_ thing about thirty minutes after they saddle up and head out. Both Hannah and Charlie ride circles around him, steering their horses round and round and laughing as Dean’s horse whinnies and stomps.

“Can you fuck off?” Dean says as he pulls on the reigns. He doesn’t know if that’ll piss his horse off or not, but it seems like the right thing to do. “I come out here to have a good time and you’re pissing my horse off. Look, she’s all huffy.” Dean points to his horse's flared nostrils and folded ears before patting the side of the black and white spotted beast. “It’s alright, [Cookie](https://flic.kr/p/2hVv1KN),” Dean whispers in her ear. “They’re just a bunch of dicks.”

“Still can’t believe you picked the one named _Cookie_,” Charlie says, shaking her head as she nudges her horse with her heel, and it starts to move.

“Yeah, like [Pip](https://flic.kr/p/2hVv8j4) is so much better!” he yells after her as her horse trots away with Hannah following close behind. “Don’t listen to them; Cookies are delicious.” Dean past her side one more time before sitting up straight. He sighs, watching after them. “Now only if I could figure out how to make you follow them.”

Dean looks down at the saddle, then at the back of Cookie’s head, picturing the nudge Charlie gave Pip. _It’s worth a try_, Dean thinks and digs his heel into Cookie’s side.

Before Dean knows what’s happening, Cookie shoots forward into a gallop, almost sending him ass-over-teakettle off the horse. Dean’s heart leaps and terror floods him as he grips onto the reigns for dear life, tugging and tugging but not getting anywhere.

“Dean!” he hears Hannah and Charlie shout as he whips past them, his thighs aching as he clenches down on Cookie’s sides. He hangs on for dear life, positive that a fall at this speed would break bones, and he _definitely _doesn't need to add _broken leg _to the list of stupid things he's done here.

“Cookie! Stop!” Dean yells, but the horse keeps going, galloping across the open field without a care for Dean's shouts. Dean tries kicking her side again, but that does absolutely fuck all, so he wraps his arms around Cookie’s heaving neck and holds on tight, praying for it all to end quickly.

“Whoa! Whoa, Cookie!” Dean hears, and his eyes snap open to find a pair of laughing blues staring back at him as the horse slows to a trot before stopping completely.

“Fuck,” Dean whispers, flushing from head to toe as he pushes himself up and tumbles off the horse, landing with a thud, flat on his back in the sun-warmed grass. “What the hell, Cookie? I thought we were friends?” Dean pushes himself up and dusts off his pants before running a hand over her shoulder as she nuzzles into Castiel’s neck, knocking him a step to the side.

“I’m surprised she let you ride her at all,” Castiel muses, stroking the horse’s nose before glancing at Dean, who’s still trying to settle his racing heart as he stretches his leg—the right one twinges a little when he moves it too fast, but otherwise, he thinks he's fine.

“That why the stable hand laughed?” Dean asks, ducking his head as he rests on hand on his knee and the other on his aching hip. He can't look at Castiel right now, no matter how good he looks with a horse pressed up against him like he's the only person in the world she wants to see.

Castiel chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners as his nose scrunches up, and Dean’s stomach twists itself into a knot. “Almost definitely. Cookie hasn’t let anyone but me ride her since the day she was gifted to me for my twelfth birthday. I raised her from a foal, you know?”

Dean’s heart melts as he straightens up and takes a step closer, resting his palm on the side of her neck. “Really? So you’re the one who named her Cookie?” Dean glances over at Castiel and catches the challenging eyebrow-raise directed at him.

“Do you have a problem with it?” Castiel asks, his voice dangerously low as he parts his lips and stares at Dean from the corner of his eyes.

A deep rumbling laugh builds in his chest, and he shakes his head. “No, but I know a couple of people who do,” he says, nodding over to Charlie and Hannah as they come trotting up beside them.

“Cookie’s not so great now, huh—Oh, prince Novak,” Charlie says, cutting herself off and sliding down from Pip's back. “I didn’t see you there.”

“Yes, though I must disagree with your assessment—Cookie is the best horse in the stables.” He looks back at Cookie, who is nuzzling happily into his hair, and his eyes turn soft and warm. “You’re the best horse, darling.”

Charlie’s face scrunches up in confusion as she looks between Hannah and Dean, but Hannah looks just as confused as Charlie—guess she doesn’t know _everything _about Castiel, after all.

“Cookie’s his horse,” Dean informs them, and watches as Charlie pales as Hannah’s nose scrunches.

“I didn’t know you had a horse?” Hannah says, slightly accusatory, and Castiel raises an eyebrow, one half of his mouth lifting into a smirk._ It's a good look for him_, Dean thinks. _He looks nice when he's not so serious_. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

That has Dean blinking in surprise, startled by how cryptic he sounds, but he shakes it off when Castiel's smile widens into a full-on, toothy grin.

“Dean,” Castiel says, drawing his attention. “They’re waiting for you to complete your interview inside.” He puts it out there so calmly—like it really doesn't matter at all to him—that it doesn’t register in Dean's brain for a moment, but when it does, Dean’s eyes widen.

“Oh, fu—” he cuts himself off mid-word, but his hands find their way into his hair as he looks across the expanse of field between him and the palace. “They’re going to be so mad,” he whispers.

Castiel chuckles and leads Cookie over by the reigns. “Come on. Get back up there and I’ll take you back.”

Dean looks over his shoulder at Castiel, his uncertainty written all over his face. “But you said—”

“She let you one once, I’m sure she’ll let you on again.” He nods for Dean to get on, but Dean hovers around the horse’s side, unsure of what to do. He had help the first time, but he doesn’t dare ask for it from Castiel. Hannah would be fairly useless in boosting him up and Charlie will just make fun of him every day for the rest of the time they're both here.

“How do I…?” He waves his hands around, searching for a handle, or _something_, to grab onto.

“You don’t know how? How did you get up the first time?” Castiel strides over, a wrinkle between his brow and his head cocked to the side.

“I, uh…I had help,” he murmurs, scratching the back of his head as he kicks at the ground—a blush rushing into his cheeks. God, he's so bad at this.

Castiel lets out a surprised laugh and shakes his head. “Well, alright. I suppose I can show you how.” He takes a step closer to Dean—only an inch or two apart—and points at the saddle. “You need to grab here, put your foot in the stirrup, and pull yourself up. Like this,” Castiel demonstrates, swinging himself up and over in one smooth motion before sliding off again. “Now, you try.”

“Okay,” Dean breathes, following each of the steps Castiel showed him. It’s clunky and uncoordinated, but he gets up without incident. “There!” He beams, looking down at Castiel as Charlie and Hannah clap and cheer.

“Good. Now you won’t need help getting on a horse ever again.” Castiel smiles up at him, lifting one hand to shield his eyes from the sun, but Dean can’t even appreciate that because—

“Wait. There’s going to be a _next time_?” He balks at the thought. This was such a traumatizing experience that he doesn’t think he’ll ever venture to try it again, no matter how nice it feels to know Castiel's horse likes him, or how much he enjoys sitting so high up—he really does enjoy it, though. He feels like he's on top of the world.

Castiel doesn’t say anything. Instead, he ducks his head and gathers the reigns in his fist, giving them a sharp tug as he clicks his tongue. Cookie starts to move immediately and Dean fights to steady himself as he jostles and rocks, his legs clenching around her to hold himself up.

Cookie gives a little jolt forward, and Dean’s heart leaps, but Castiel holds her back with a laugh.

“Try not to squeeze your legs so tight; she thinks you’re telling her to go.” Castiel grins up at Dean and a trickle of warmth slithers through him as he unclenches. “Just sit tight. Focus on your balance and hold onto the saddle right there. Maybe I can teach you properly some time.”

Again, the mention of a second time, but Dean doesn’t comment—he just likes the thought of him and Castiel spending more time together.

Dean starts to relax the longer he’s on the horse without falling off. Charlie rides ahead, but Hannah lags behind a little, chatting with Castiel as they make their way back to the stable. As Dean watches them, he can’t help but notice how comfortable Castiel is with Hannah, and he knows, deep down in his heart, that she’s the best match for him. It has his stomach twisting in knots just thinking about it, but he knows there’s nothing he can do—if Castiel’s going to choose Hannah over him, there isn't anything that’ll change his mind.

Dean tries not to sink into those thoughts, but it’s hard when he’s sitting up here and Hannah’s down there—having dismounted her horse—talking quietly with Castiel, their heads bent close as they laugh and joke about things Dean will never understand.

He tries to think about his call home later—maybe he’ll tell Sam about the horse ride and how Castiel’s horse let him ride her even though she doesn’t let _anyone _ride her—that’d be a good bragging point, but then he’d have to tell him about the fact that he doesn’t actually know_ how _to ride a horse, and that he fell off. Or, maybe he’ll ask Castiel if his mom can send him a few pairs of his own jeans, or if he can maybe go visit them one of these free Saturdays—just for the day.

Dean glances up at the sound of pounding hooves and finds Hannah riding off, her flowing blue dress flapping in the breeze.

“Where’s she going so fast?” Dean asks, glancing down at Castiel, who’s walking right beside him now—his shoulder not quite brushing Dean’s thigh.

“I asked her to ride ahead to let the camera crew know to start the next interview. We won’t be back in time, so you will need to do it later tonight.” Castiel glances up at him when he speaks, his hair ruffling in the breeze as his eyes shine. Dean can’t help but notice how nice he looks today, in a deep green button-down and a pair of black slacks—as casual as Dean’s sure he gets.

“Will I still have time to phone home?”

“Of course,” Castiel assures him with a nod as they reach the top of a swelling hill. Dean looks over the expanse of land in front of them—the stables are just a blob in the distance—and he realizes just how far Cookie carried him. “I never got the chance to ask—other than the encounter with Mr. Gendenco, did your family enjoy the ball?”

Dean cringes at the reminder of that foul man, but he pushes it aside with a shrug. “I think they had fun. Haven’t really gotten the chance to ask, but Sam definitely enjoyed himself.” Dean shakes his head with a chuckle as he loosens one hand from the saddle to rub over Cookie’s neck. Her fur is smooth and warm beneath his palm. “I don’t think he’s ever had so much pie in his life.”

Castiel laughs, slowing them down a little as the hill steepens, and Dean tilts forward in the saddle. “Speaking of pie,” he says, glancing over at Dean with a grin. “I’m told my staff makes special deliveries to one, _Dean Winchester_, quite late in the night.” He raises an eyebrow as Dean scoffs, already planning to bitch Sammy out for that one.

“I don’t _ask _them to! They just do it,” he pouts, looking across the field so he doesn't have to look at Castiel's laughing eyes.

“I have no doubt.” Castiel nods, rubbing his own palm over Cookie’s flank as she shakes her head—her mane flopping around before settling in a wild mess. “My staff is rather fond of you.”

“Aw, really?” Dean asks, his head tilting to the side as a soft smile settles on his face. He forgets about not wanting to look at Castiel's smile and gazes down at the little twist of his mouth and the crinkles by his eyes—what a stupid idea, anyway.

Castiel chuckles, but nods. He doesn’t look overly surprised, but Dean chooses not to think too much about that—it’ll only get his hopes up. So, instead, he turns his face to the sky and lets the sun heat his cheeks. It’s a beautifully warm day for the end of September and he can’t help but think it’s the perfect day for a date—perhaps a picnic in the grass—but he knows that’s not what this is. Castiel is only helping him get back because he knows Dean would never make it on his own.

“What about your parents?” Castiel asks after a minute. “Did they enjoy themselves?” There’s a hint of something in Castiel’s voice, but it’s so small that he can’t quite pinpoint it. Dean stares into Castiel’s eyes for a moment, but all he finds there is curiosity.

“I think my mom had a good time. She likes getting the opportunity to dress up and drink fancy champagne. My dad, though…” Dean sighs as sadness floods him, knowing he almost certainly did not. “He’s not really the kind of person that likes those kinds of things. He came for me, but I’m sure he would’ve much rather stayed at home with a beer and his TV than dress up for a ball.” Dean pauses, glancing over at Castiel for a second before deciding to say what’s on his mind. “He’s not really a fan of being treated like a lower class citizen, either, even if that’s what we are.” He shrugs, trying to play it off, but the reminder that he’s never going to be good enough for Castiel hurts.

“Dean, I—” Castiel swallows and looks away. Dean can tell he wants to say something more—something real and meaningful—but doesn’t seem to know now. He opens and closes his mouth a few times but nothing comes out.

“S’okay, Cas. It’s fine.” But it’s not, and they both know it. Castiel steps closer—so close that his shoulder brushes Dean’s leg—and electric heat radiate through him, setting his blood on fire and standing his hairs on end.

“Sometimes—” Castiel stops, unsure, before meeting Dean’s eyes. He looks away quickly, his cheeks coloring in a rare blush, and Dean blinks in surprise. “I shouldn’t…I really shouldn’t say this,” he whispers, his head ducked, and Dean just barely hears him.

“What? What is it, Cas?” Dean’s curiosity gets the best of him, and he leans forward, trying to see Castiel’s face, but he just shakes his head, his features closing off as he looks up at Dean.

“It’s nothing.” Then he smiles, but it’s sad—almost bitter. It leaves a bad taste in Dean’s mouth, but now they’re coming up to the stables, and people are puttering around outside—close enough to hear their conversation—so Dean lets it slide as Castiel leads Cookie through the doors.

The cooler air of the dark barn flows over Dean's exposed skin, making him shiver where he sits. They’re the only two in there—Charlie has probably wandered off to the barracks, and who knows where Hannah is—but Dean’s not complaining, except he isn't quite sure how to get off, and he doesn’t know if asking Castiel for help would be acceptable, so he searches for something to step down onto, but finds nothing.

“Cas, how do I…” Dean shifts around on the saddle, trying to slide one way before deciding against it and going back the other way. He looks over at Castiel, who has the tiniest grin on his face as he shakes his head. He steps closer.

“Alright, I suppose you need to practice this, too. Hold onto the saddle there,” he points to the place he wants Dean to hold, and Dean does. “Then slide your right leg over.” Dean does that, too, getting his right leg over to the left side. “You need to make sure your foot isn’t going to get caught—no, Dean!”

Dean tumbles backward, his arms windmilling as his foot gets caught in the stirrup. Cookie sidesteps, whinnying and knocking Dean back another step, and then there are arms around Dean’s chest, holding him up as his heart thunders against his rib cage.

Castiel holds Dean tightly, his breaths whispering across Dean’s ear and sending shivers down his spine. He can feel every inch of Castiel’s chest against his back, not to mention how tightly his arms wrap around Dean’s torso. Dean’s breaths come in quick pants, and he thanks whatever God is up there that Castiel can’t see his face right now because he’s as red as a beet and probably looks a little deranged.

A soft chuckle brushes across his neck. “I suppose the first thing you learn next time is how to mount and _dis_mount a horse.”

Dean laughs, but it’s strained. His breaths still come too fast and Castiel’s _entire_ front is pressed against his _entire _back as he tries to angle himself enough to free Dean’s foot without letting him fall. It takes some maneuvering, and it’s not exactly comfortable, but they manage to get Dean’s foot unhooked without any damage.

Then Castiel lets him go, and Dean can’t help but miss the contact. Every time Castiel touches him—even the smallest graze of his fingers—makes it harder and harder to let it go. He doesn’t want to think about having to go home and never see this place again—he doesn’t _want _to say goodbye to Castiel.

Dean shoves the thought as far away as he can and swallows the lump in his throat as he follows Castiel back to Cookie’s stall. “Thank you,” he says, then winces, “And sorry.” Castiel glances back at him, his brow knitting in confusion, so Dean explains with a shrug. “The whole,” he waves a hand between them as his blush deepens. “Touching thing. I know it’s a rule and, even though it was an accident, I just…” he trails off with another shrug as Castiel’s cheeks redden visibly, even in the darkness of Cookie’s stall.

Castiel doesn’t respond as he pulls the saddle off Cookie’s back and hangs it up on the wall. She stands perfectly still as he picks up a brush and runs it over her side, letting him do what he wishes in a way that shows complete trust. Dean never thought he'd be jealous of a horse, but here he is. He brings a hand up to her neck, stroking over her mane as she rests her nose on his shoulder—he can’t help but feel a little honored by her trust in him, and he wishes he could have that trust from her owner, as well, but he knows it'll take time—it's only been a week, after all.

Dean glances around the stables, taking in the dirt-covered floors and high ceiling—the rafters stretching across the length of the building and the smell of horse shit and fresh hay. It’s like a rustic old barn, but obviously well-kept—nothing is out of place and all the horses look happy and well cared for. Dean wanders over to the other horses, rubbing their noses when they come over to check him out.

“Nine horses?” Dean asks, standing by the stall across from Cookie’s in front of an affectionate Clydesdale. Castiel glances up, his blue eyes shining even in the dim lighting, and he smiles.

“And one on the way.” He nods to the brown and white spotted appaloosa at the end of the row. Dean’s grin widens as he approaches her, noticing her bulging belly.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he whispers, stroking her neck as he reads her nameplate on the door. "[Brigit](https://flic.kr/p/2hVyC84),” he whispers before turning back to Castiel. “Who’s is she?”

Castiel grins without looking up a Dean, focussing on brushing Cookie's chest and neck. “Also mine. Both the appaloosas are.” Castiel latches the door when he exits Cookie’s stall, setting the brush on the ledge before wandering over to stand beside Dean. “I received Brigit last year.” He glances at Dean from the corner of his eye. “Another birthday present. Don’t tell Hael, but I’m gifting her Brigit’s foal as her first horse. She should be here by Hael’s eighth birthday in the spring.”

“That’s really sweet of you,” Dean says without thinking, and he smiles when Castiel gets all flustered—it’s adorable, but Dean speaks before Castiel can get any more embarrassed. “Is one of these horses the dad?”

Castiel smiles as he wanders down the rows to a chestnut thoroughbred two stalls over. “This is [Remmie](https://flic.kr/p/2hVv1Mw). He belongs to my father.” Dean nods, keeping clear of the horse's bobbing head.

When the horse settles, Dean leans closer, and he’s not sure why he does it, but he whispers in the horse’s ear. “You’ll make beautiful babies, Remmie.”

Dean jumps, startled when Castiel laughs—his head thrown back and his nose scrunched up. Dean can’t even manage to be embarrassed that Castiel overheard his declaration because that_ laugh_…

It sinks into his heart and sets off a swarm of butterflies in his stomach—something about making _Castiel _laugh just does something to Dean that he can’t explain and he's not entirely sure how he feels about it.

Then Castiel tips his head forward, his eyes shining as he looks at Dean. “You’re quite strange, you know?”

Dean chuckles, but it’s awkward and unsure as he scuffs his feet in the dirt. “Good strange, right?”

Castiel’s smile turns soft as his head tilts to the side—he watches Dean’s face as he nods his head. “Of course,” he says, and it’s barely above a whisper. They stand like that for a minute, neither of them willing to voice what they’re thinking, before Castiel takes a deep breath and steps away, his features closing off into something more neutral. “You should get back to the palace and make your phone call.” Dean nods but doesn’t move—frozen to the spot with his eyes still locked on Castiel's. “I’ll walk with you.”

In the next moment, there’s a hand on his arm—deliberate fingers nudge him towards the door when he doesn't move, and Dean can’t help but notice how they linger for a second too long, before falling away.

“So, Dean,” Duma says from behind the camera as Dean sits under the bright lights for his personal interview. It’s hot and he’s sweating already, but he’s so goddamn giddy that it _must _be showing on his face. “Balthazar was sent home yesterday; what are your thoughts on that?”

Dean thinks about it for a moment, opening and closing his mouth a couple of times as he picks exactly the right words to say so that he doesn’t sound like an asshole. “How do I feel about Balthazar being sent home?” He internally applauds himself for remember to say that, and continues on. “I didn’t really get to know him, you know? We didn’t talk, so I won’t really miss him. I don’t really feel much sadness to see him go, other than I know he won’t get the chance to get to know the prince, which is sad for him.” Dean shrugs and waits with a grin for the next question. It’s only his second personal interview, but he thinks he’s doing pretty well.

“At any point during yesterday’s ceremony, were you worried it would be you that was sent home?” Duma flips through her pages, not really listening as she checks off questions, but her head shoots up when Dean snorts.

“Yeah, of course I was worried.” He winces, “Shit,” then slaps a hand over his mouth, but Duma just waves for him to keep going. Dean clears his throat and straightens up on the stool. “I’ve been worried all week, but getting the last rose wasn’t exactly a confidence booster, you know?” Dean shrugs and looks away from the flashing red light of the camera. “I know I’m an outcast here, and many don’t think I deserve this opportunity—_I _don’t even think it half the time—but here I am.“ He throws his hands out to his sides and slaps them against his thighs as he shrugs again. “Who knows for how much longer, but I’ll take all the time I can get with Cas—with the prince.” Dean feels a smile tugging at his lips and he tries to fight it as a blush follows close behind. He looks down at his hands as he twists them in his lap. “He’s—the prince, that is—he’s pretty damn special.” He jerks his shoulders in yet another shrug—for good measure. "It's a privilege just to speak with him." As he says it, he realizes just how true it is. The prince is something special and rare, and that scares Dean even more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on Twitter at [allmystars_i](https://twitter.com/allmystars_i)  
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	8. WEEK ONE - Sunday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is pretty short and not much happens but I've been excited to write it because I think it's kind of funny. Anyway, I have an exam tonight, so wish me luck!

"Get back here, Mr. Winchester!" Susie shouts as she chases him down the halls. Dean huffs and puffs, skidding around corners and skirting past unsuspecting guards on his way to the viewing room.

He was wrong about the baths—God, he was so, _so _wrong—they're not the worst part. Not even _close_.

It's Sunday's.

Sunday's are 'beauty day' as Susie calls them, which means hell on earth to anyone who doesn't like hot wax, plucking, hair and face masks, and any other torturous procedure he's forced to endure.

His bare feet slap on the marble floors and his baggy sleep pants ruffle against his skin as he ducks into a narrow hallway—one he's pretty sure is used for servant passage. He's not even entirely certain he's going the right way, but he can't stop now. Susie is right on his heels with whatever she wants to do next, and he just _knows _he's not going to like it.

Besides, the viewing is supposed to be starting now and she wanted him to _miss it_. Or so she told him when she pulled out the hot wax, and that was about when he made a break for it.

He skids into the viewing room, barefoot and bare-chested, with a shower cap on his head keeping his hair mask from running all over the place. He's panting and sweating, and he knows Susie's not far behind.

When he glances up from where he stands in the doorway, doubled over with his hands on his knees, he finds the whole room is staring at him. From the other suitors to the camera crew to the guards standing at every door, and—_fuck him_—Castiel, too.

A nervous laugh bubbles up his throat as he swings his arms around before shrugging, but the smile drops from his lips when he hears her voice echoing down the hallway, and he scurries further into the room, his heart leaping into his throat as he hides behind one of the guards.

"Mr. Winchester! I'm not finished with you!" She appears like a phantom in the doorway, her torture tools held in a box between her hands, and Dean shrinks behind Benny, making sure to duck down so the top of his shower cap doesn't show.

“Make her leave, please,” he whispers in Benny’s ear, but he just shakes his head, turning to the side a little so he can speak through the corner of his mouth.

“No way, man. Susie’s terrifying.”

“Yeah, no shit!” Dean hisses, then Benny is shoved to the side by tiny hands and Dean’s staring down into Susie’s angry eyes. He gulps, taking a step back when she reaches for his arm. “C’mon, Suse! I just wanna see the show!”

“I’m not finished with you yet,” she snaps, tugging on his arm. He’s not sure what put Susie in such a bad mood, but he really wishes she’d stop taking it out on him. The camera crew is just about finished setting up, and Dean knows that if he doesn’t convince her, he’ll miss it, and he _really _doesn’t want to be the only one who hasn’t seen the episode before it airs.

“Leave him be,” Castiel says from his chair, his voice rumbling in the room with deep authority, and both Susie’s and Dean’s heads snap around to find Castiel watching them. He doesn’t smile, his expression is blank and serious, but he raises an eyebrow when Susie doesn’t release Dean’s wrist. “You can finish here, just like everyone else.”

“But, Prince Novak—”

He cuts her off, his jaw clenching as he repeats himself.“You can finish _here_, just like everyone _else_.” There’s a pause, and Dean’s eyes flick back and forth between the two, who seem to be having a private conversation that no one else is privy to. Dean’s stomach twists when Susie nods and drops his wrist—nothing good can come from this.

Dean takes careful steps on his way over to the only available spot in the cushions laid out for the suitors, which happens to be right next to Castiel. He’s surprised Meg isn’t attached to Castiel already, but when he glances over, he finds her across the room, turning her nose up at every nail color she’s shown. _Maybe she doesn’t want Castiel to see her without a full face of makeup?_ Dean decides that must be the case for all of them because even Hannah is closer to the other side of the room than normal, and the nearest person to Dean happens to be Charlie, who he knows doesn’t really care what Castiel thinks of her.

When Dean has himself settled, sinking into the squishy cushions, he nudges Charlie's arm, and when she looks at him, he nods to her sparkly, pink-painted toes. She swats his arm, mouthing _fuck_ _off_, and he grins, though he's still far from calm. His anxiety doesn’t settle any when the episode starts playing, either, showing a long shot of the palace in all its glory as Duma’s voice over-plays.

“_I’m sure we all remember that wonderful day twenty-one years ago when Prince Castiel James Charles Novak was born, the heir to the Amarellinian throne. The parties—the celebration and excitement—rivaled anything else, except this!_”

They cut to a clip from the selection day where Castiel stands on the balcony, looking over the thousands of people, as he explains his process of finding a spouse. Dean smiles as he remembers that day—his view from below as he thought about just how wonderful it would be to be chosen. He remembers just how regal Castiel looked—how handsome.

“Fuck!” Dean shouts as Susie rips the wax strip off his big toe, surprised by the burning pain as he jerks his foot back.

“Mr. Winchester,” one of the guards says, stepping forward, but Castiel holds up a hand.

“It’s fine, Joshua.” The guard nods and takes a step back as Dean clutches his now-hairless big toe, glaring at Susie.

“Give it back, boy.” Susie waves her hands at him, and Dean huffs but straightens his leg again.

“Warn a guy before ripping out his toe hairs, would you?” he says as she presses another strip to his second toe. Then, looking him dead in the eye, she rips it out, and he groans through clenched teeth. “Why do you hate me?” he mutters as she rubs a finger over the aching skin.

She doesn’t answer, but he sees the smile on her lips as she applies the next strip. Dean tries to refocus on the show, but the sounds of snipping, brushing, and ripping makes it hard.

Then, Charlie nudges his arm. “Aw, look at you! You were so _cute_!” Dean glances at the TV and finds himself stuttering and stammering over his words during his introduction interview.

“Oh, the leprechaun suit. Remember that one, Suse? Ow,” he glares at his stylist as she shuts him up by ripping out more hair, but he quickly turns back to the screen.

“_I’m Dean Winchester, from…down the road?_” His TV self cringes before leaning in a little and whispering, very obviously, to Duma, who is off-camera. “_I don’t know what else to say. Oh, what I do? Okay._” TV Dean pauses and straightens up with an obvious blush. “_I usually work with my dad in his mechanics shop, but I do a little bit of everything_.” He shrugs and leans in again, listening, before answering. “_I’m twenty-four. Oh, crap,_” TV Dean says and shakes his head before re-stating the question like he’s supposed to. “_How old am I? I’m twenty-four._”

Dean covers his face with both hands and groans, feeling his cheeks heat beneath his palms as the room chuckles and teases, Charlie slaps his thigh and he even hears a laugh from Castiel.

“I’ve changed my mind, Suse. Take me back.” He looks at her with pleading eyes but she just shakes her head with a grin and glances past him at Castiel. They did this on purpose, Dean knows, and he resents them both for it.

Dean watches the rest of the interviews, noting how smooth and professional the other suitors look compared to him—their answers are succinct and detailed—and he throws his arms up as he twists around to look at Mick. “What the hell, man? I look like a bumbling idiot compared to everyone else.”

“Nothing new,” he hears Meg say from across the room, but he ignores her as he stares Mick down.

He shrugs, keeping his eyes trained on the screen. “The viewers will love it. Don’t worry so much.”

Dean huffs, but he turns back around, crossing his arms over his chest as Charlie leans into his side. “I thought you were adorable,” she whispers like it’s supposed to make him feel better.

“Thanks, Charlie,” he says, despite his annoyance, and uncrosses his arms to wrap one around her shoulders. They settle in like that, watching in silence as the highlights of each day are covered, and Dean is surprised by how often he features—from the jokes he tells during dinner, to his interactions with the guards. There’s a lot of gossip about each other in the personal interviews, too, and Dean blushes and covers his face again when clips from his Tuesday interview are shown.

There’s a lot of talk about how he shouldn’t be here, mostly by Meg and Lily, the second of which Dean hasn’t even spoken to yet, and now he suspects why that is. He feels Castiel stiffen beside him when Lily’s interview comes on, and she says, quite clearly, that Dean is worse than a dog.

“It’s disrespectful to have him here. Like, a commoner is as good as the rest of us, who know basic manners, at least. The prince might as well have a dog sitting at the table with the rest of us for the way Dean eats his food.” No one says anything, but Dean can feel all eyes on him as he stares straight ahead, not daring to meet anyone’s gaze.

He’s embarrassed—humiliated, actually—and he can feel the burn of it in his stomach as a lump forms in his throat, but he won’t give anyone the satisfaction of seeing how their words affect him, so he clenches his jaw and doesn’t react.

“Mr. Winchester, I need you to pull up your pant-legs,” Susie says as she shoves them past to his calves. Dean does as he’s told, pulling them up as far as they will go—which is pretty damn far—before laying his legs on the towel she sets out.

He’s not paying attention, too busy watching Michael introduce his sister and father to Castiel on-screen, and then the breath is sucked out of him. His mouth hangs wide but no sound comes out when Susie rips a strip off his calf, taking the hair with it.

His hands clench in the cushion beneath him as he doubles over, trying to stay quiet even though he wants to scream because _holy fuck_ that hurts!

“Why the hell do you need to wax my legs?” Dean snaps, a little louder than he means to, and the other suitors look over to watch the exchange.

“To _moisturize, _Mr. Winchester! It’s easier.” With that, she rips off another strip and Dean squeaks, his eyes squinting as he bites his lower lip and tries not to tear through the cushion with his newly trimmed fingernails.

Then the show zooms in on his face as he tells off Gendenco, and Dean can’t bear to watch that again, so there’s nothing to distract him from the pain radiating through his legs.

He grips onto the armrest of Castiel’s chair, not really paying attention as his fingers squeeze and he rests his forehead on his arm, waiting for the next burst of pain. He doesn’t even notice the other hand beneath his own or the way his fingers intertwine with another set. He just grits his teeth and squeezes harder, and so does the other hand.

“Mr. Winchester, you can’t—” Dean glances up in time to see Castiel waving the guard off, and for a second, he’s confused, until he looks down at his own hand and sees that he’s got his fingers wrapped around Castiel’s. His heart leaps—panic flooding him—and he pulls his hand away, looking up at Castiel with wide eyes.

“Sorry,” he whispers, but Castiel just shakes his head—his smile, small and a little disappointed.

Then Susie rips off another strip and Dean’s not thinking about the warmth of Castiel’s skin against his own anymore, but the burning in his legs as he hisses through his teeth.

“You good, pretty boy?” Charlie asks, and he gives her a small smile, though he thinks he might cry. How do people do this _regularly_? It’s torture—like, _actual _torture. Dean would give up all the world’s secrets before being subjected to this again.

To Susie’s credit, she tries to be fast, but that also means he doesn’t get a break between strips of hair being ripped out. Charlie tries to distract him with snide comments about April’s makeup, and how Michael always looks like he’s got a pickle up his ass, and it works to an extent, but nothing’s as good as feeling Castiel’s hand wrap around his.

He only does it once more after Dean's slip-up, and it’s far too brief before he lets go again, but he squeezes lightly and smiles down at Dean when he looks up at him, shrugging as he leans in to whisper, “She did it to me once, and I refuse to allow her to do it a second time.”

Dean blinks up at him, hope swelling in his chest as another strip of hair is ripped away. “Can I do that, too?”

Castiel gives him a one-shoulder shrug, his eyes flicking to Susie before settling back on Dean. “It’s your body—if you don’t like something, tell her no.”

“I can do that?” Dean asks, his voice rising into a squeak at the end as Susie pulls off another strip. He wasn't aware he was allowed to veto any of this—he didn't think it was his place to say no.

“Of course you can.” Castiel leans even closer, bending over the arm of the chair so he can whisper in Dean’s ear. “I know how insistent she can be, but you are under no obligation to do anything that crosses a line.” He nods to where Susie is finishing up his lower legs. “If this is a line, tell her so, but be gentle; this is her job, and she’s been doing it for a very long time.”

Dean nods his understanding as Castiel pulls back, resettling in his chair to watch the rest of the viewing.It’s in the last fifteen minutes of the show, which is only about an hour long, so Dean gives it as much of his attention as he’s able while having Susie wax his thighs.

Castiel has just stepped into the room on TV and Duma is giving her spiel. Dean watches the veiled emotion in Castiel’s expression the entire time, noticing how each person gets a different kind of smile. Meg’s is reserved, while Hannah’s is friendly and familiar; Jo gets a sympathetic tilt of the lips when she stumbles off the platform, and Michael gets a proper, rigid greeting.

Dean leans his head against the armrest of Castiel’s chair, his shower cap crinkling as Susie finishes up, packing away her waxing strips and digging through her bags for the next thing. Dean finally relaxes despite the fact that he’s mostly exposed to the room without a shirt and with is pants rucked up around his thighs. He’s comfortable and content, especially when Susie pulls out some soothing oil and rubs it over Dean’s stinging skin.

"Suse," he says, catching her attention and steeling himself. "We're not doing this again. No more leg waxing." He tries to be gentle, but firm—leaving no room for argument. Of course, that doesn't stop her, but Dean didn't really think it would.

Her face pinches as she pauses what she's doing and glares up at him. "Mr. Winchester—"

"Susie, it's a line. Please, respect it." He keeps his voice calm and smooth, making sure she understands. She glances up at Castiel, her mouth hanging open, and Dean catches Castiel's nod from the corner of his eye.

Susie's eyes come back down to his, and there's nothing but calm professionalism in them—no anger, no bitterness—and Dean's grateful for that. Susie nods and gets back to her task. "Very well, boy."

Dean smiles, happy to get his way, and he looks up at Castiel with a thankful grin. Castiel nods, sneaking him a wink that shoots warmth through Dean's veins.

Then it’s time for Dean to receive his rose—the _final _rose—and the smile he gets from Castiel is so completely different from the others that something twists in his chest as emotion floods him. A lump forms in his throat as Castiel’s smile turns soft and excited all at once. He doesn’t appear to fight the feelings, and they show plainly on his face as he twists the rose between his fingers, standing tall and straight—his head held high and his joy, clear in his eyes for everyone to see.

Dean chances a peek to his left, catching Castiel’s side glance before they both look away, but butterflies flutter in Dean’s belly, and for the first time this week, he thinks maybe he won’t be going home so soon after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on Twitter at [allmystars_i](https://twitter.com/allmystars_i)  
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Follow me on Instagram @allmystars_i


	9. WEEK TWO - Monday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I haven't posted since last year (haha I'm funny 'cause it's the new year) but it actually has been a while. Christmas break and all, has been busy as hell, but I should be able to post more frequently again.
> 
> I hope you like this one! Shit's getting real.

Dean can’t help but glance across the table at breakfast Monday morning, and every time he does, Lily, Meg, April, and Michael give him the stink-eye like he’s never seen before. His stomach clenches and sinks at the same time as he looks back down at his plate; he knows they’re talking about him, and it has a trickle of unease sliding through him.

It’s not like he didn’t already know they don’t like him, but having it so overtly thrown in his face doesn’t exactly feel good, either; he much preferred when they were more subtle about their dislike.

He pokes the food around on his plate, ignoring Charlie’s enthusiastic chatter about Dorothy and her many marvelous qualities. It’s not that he isn’t happy for her, he just can’t focus with the _eyes _staring at him.

He stabs at a strip of bacon and tries to shove the whole thing in his mouth, but doesn’t quite manage and it gets stuck, protruding from both sides of his lips. Dean ducks his head, his cheeks prickling with heat as Lily sniffs loud enough for him to hear. He pushes his plate away after that.

“Why aren’t you eating?”

Dean startles, looking over his shoulder to catch sight Castiel as he rounds the table. There’s real concern in his eyes and a crease between his brows as he stops on his way to his seat.

Dean fumbles for a minute, flustered, as he glances across the table one more time, before looking back up at Castiel with a strained smile and a shrug. “I’m not hungry.”

“You are _always _hungry. What is it?”

“I—”

“Prince Novak! You won’t _believe _what—” Meg says from across the table, but Castiel just holds up a hand, silencing her without even glancing her way as he waits for Dean’s answer.

He clears his throat and wipes his clammy hands on his knees. “I—I don’t feel well.” It’s not exactly a lie—he _does _feel sick. Sick to his stomach and terribly insecure at being told he’s not good enough—that he doesn’t belong in a place like this.

“Oh,” Castiel says, but his frown doesn’t go away. “Would you like some tea, instead? The same as before?” Castiel leans in closer—so close that Dean can smell his honeysuckle and freshwater scent—and Dean can’t help the way his stomach flutters.

“Y-yes, please.”

Castiel smiles—soft and reassuring—and Dean tries to match it, but he doesn’t quite manage. Castiel signals to one of the staff and has a quick, quiet conversation with him before he hurries off, and Castiel leans down to whisper in Dean’s ear.

“Just tell them where to shove it and they'll leave you alone; the rich and powerful don’t tend to know what to do when they're told off.”

Dean’s head whips around so fast his neck cracks, but he doesn’t find a smile on Castiel’s face—only a knowing looking in his eyes as he tilts his head to one side, indicating the group across from them. Then he’s gone.

“What was that all about?” Charlie asks as she leans in closer, her eyes following Castiel as he rounds the table and Meg practically throws herself at him again.

“Nothing. He’s having someone bring me tea.” Dean doesn’t look at her when he speaks, watching, instead, as Castiel listens to whatever it is Meg is saying. He doesn’t look exceptionally bored, but Dean supposes Castiel has experience in appearing interested even when he’d rather be doing anything else.

“Huh,” Charlie says, and she doesn’t elaborate, but he can feel her eyes on the side of his head as a mug of tea is set down in front of him.

He smiles up at the man standing beside him, who blinks a few times when Dean whispers, “Thank you,” before hurrying away as a flush rises in his cheeks.

“Damn, Winchester, try not to dazzle them so much, huh?” Charlie says, nudging Dean’s shoulder with her elbow as she laughs.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Shut up,” he says, but there’s a smile in his voice.

“Come _on_, Dean! Just sit down with us,” Hannah pats the grass beside her, shielding her eyes as she looks up at him where he stands a few feet away. He doesn’t dare to sit in the grass, though—not in the gleaming white atrocity that Susie put him in this morning. Who in their right mind would put _Dean Winchester _in a white suit?

“Nah, I’m good here,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he turns on the spot, surveying the grounds and watching as most of the other suitors follow Castiel around like baby ducklings.

“Jesus, the way you fear your stylist like she’s the goddamned devil, herself,” Charlie mutters, lying back and closing her eyes to the sky as if she hasn’t got a care in the world.

“She’s not the devil, but she’s damn scary, that’s for sure.” He can practically _feel _Charlie’s eye-roll, but he doesn’t turn to check as he watches Castiel pluck a flower from the earth and hand it to Kelly. It’s not a blue rose, but a daisy and Dean knows Castiel is just being nice, but it doesn’t stop his stomach from twisting itself into knots at the sight.

“Don’t you just wish that were you?” Dean turns, finding Lily and April not far behind him. “You’ll be gone before he gets the chance, though.” Dean rolls his eyes but doesn’t otherwise react to Lily’s words. “A shame, really.” She crosses her arms over her chest and smirks up at him, standing closer than he’d like in a way he’s sure is meant to be intimidating.

“The hell do you want?” Charlie snaps as she and Hannah get to their feet.

“Nothing with you.” April looks her up and down, her distaste clear in her eyes. “With any of you, actually. I’m surprised you’re all still here, what with how..._indecent_ you are.” She looks smug for about two seconds until Hannah opens her mouth.

“You might be forgetting, though I’m not sure how, that I, myself, am of royal blood.” Hannah raises an eyebrow as he shoulders straighten—her chin tilting in a way that is unmistakably regal. “I may not be a member of this particular royal family, but insulting a princess, such as you have done, is a punishable offense, as I’m sure you are aware.” Dean can’t help the satisfaction he feels at watching the smile melt from April’s and Lily’s face—his respect for Hannah swells all the more.

April’s mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, but Lily only stares, her eyes narrowing slightly on Dean before she turns away, her dress whipping in the wind, but Dean doesn’t bother watching her go.

He claps his hand together, turning to his friends with a bright smile. “What do you say to a little game of tennis?”

Charlie grins, forgetting her anger entirely, and Dean would be lying if he said she doesn’t scare him a little. “You’re on, pretty boy.”

Twenty minutes later, equipped with tennis rackets and balls, Dean realizes exactly what Charlie’s little grin was all about. Turns out tennis is _hard_, and Dean is so damn bad at it it’s embarrassing. He swats at the ball almost wildly, closing his eyes and hoping he manages to even make contact—at this point, getting it over the net is a hopeless dream.

“Damn, Charlie, didn’t you say you’d go easy on me?” Dean pants as he tosses the ball back over the net. He holds up a finger for her to wait while he peels off his jacket and unbuttons his waistcoat before throwing that off, too. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he unbuttons the sleeves on his dark gray button-down and rolls them up to his elbows.

“I don’t remember ever saying that,” Charlie says with a laugh as she bounces the ball in front of her. Her deep green dress billows around her, sweeping over the court with her diminished height, having kicked off her heels before their game even began.

“Really?” Dean tries to focus as the ball comes at him again, but he barely clips it and it spins off towards the fence.

“Nice try, Dean! At least, you hit it this time,” Hannah cheers from the other side of the green chainlink, smiling wide as she gives him a thumbs up. He chuckles, shaking his head as he tosses the ball back over.

“You’re so good to me,” he says, placing a hand over his heart and completely missing Charlie’s next serve because of it. “Hey,” Dean snaps, tossing the ball back.

Charlie grins as she bounces the ball once more.“I’ll give you a slow one, alright?”

Dean nods, pushing his sweat-soaked hair back from his face. It’s not exceptionally hot out, but Dean’s been running around the court for a while and the beating sun doesn’t help. He tries his best to ignore how disheveled he must look, and he doesn’t dare to glance up at the group slowly approaching from the left, but it’s hard not to since he can feel Castiel’s eyes on him.

Charlie tosses the ball in the air and he notices just how slow it is this time, but even then, it’s still too fast as it hits the ground and he runs for it, his bare feet slapping the court as he swings, somehow managing to knock it in the opposite direction as he crashes into the fence, his fingers tangling around it, and he finds himself face-to-face with a softly grinning Castiel. Dean can’t help his own smile—it stretches his cheeks and crinkles his eyes. He feels giddy with happiness despite how badly he’s doing.

“Well, I don’t think I’d make it to any sort of championships, but I’m not too bad, huh?” Dean grins, pushing away from the fence as Castiel quirks an eyebrow. Dean turns away, his focus back on the ball, and this time, when Charlie sends it flying over the net and Dean swings like mad, he manages to hit it square in the middle of his racket. It flies back at Charlie so fast that she misses. For a minute, they're both too shocked to react.

Then, Dean lets out a whoop and jumps up and down on the balls of his feet, both arms raised as he turns to face the clapping crowd. Castiel is smiling for real this time and Dean’s stomach dips and flutters as pure happiness suffuses him.

“Dean, watch—”

He doesn’t even have time to react before it hits him and then he’s on the ground with both hands covering the spot just below his right eye where the tennis ball hit. His face throbs as he touches the spot, hissing when the cut stings, but it’s not a big deal—he already knows it’s nothing serious.

One moment, there’s blue sky above him—cloudless and endless—and in the next, there are blue _eyes_. Just as endless, but filled with concern as Castiel kneels at Dean’s side.

“Dean, I’m so sorry!” he can hear Charlie saying, but he doesn’t bother looking for her as Castiel leans in closer.

“Did it hit your eye or just your cheekbone?” he asks in a quiet voice—completely calm to almost everyone’s ears, but Dean can hear the subtle notes of panic.

“Cheekbone. I’ll have a hell of a black eye, though,” he says as he pushes himself up. “I’m fine, though. Really.”

Castiel doesn’t look convinced but he nods. “I’d still like for you to see the nurse. She can give you some ice and clean up that cut.”

“Cas, I’m fine—”

“Please,” Castiel breathes, cutting Dean off. “Please, just do it.” Dean hesitates for a minute, but Castiel’s expression turns into something more desperate as he whispers, “For me?”

Dean snaps his mouth shut, confused as all hell, but he nods, and Castiel lets out a breath in a rush of air like he’d been holding it in. _What’s that all about? Surely he can’t have been _that _concerned?_ Dean doesn’t ask, though, and lets himself be led into the castle by a couple of guards, Charlie, Hannah, and Castiel, who walks closer than necessary, allowing his own jacket to brush Dean’s bare arm.

Dean walks out of the hospital-wing thirty minutes later with a clean cut, an icepack, and a pain killer. By all accounts, it’s probably the most minor injury he’s ever sustained, but by the reactions of his companions, you’d think he was dying. He doesn’t get it, and he tells Charlie and Hannah as much every time they start to fret.

“We just care about you, okay?” Charlie snaps, pressing the icepack back to his face when he tries to take it away. “You got hurt and we don’t like that, so we’re _here_.” Dean doesn’t miss the way she glances over to where Castiel is talking with his nurse, but he chooses to ignore it. He can’t think too much about Castiel caring for him—it’ll just hurt too bad when he eventually sends Dean home.

“How’s your eye?” Sarah asks as they get up from the table after dinner. Her sleek, curve-hugging dress matches both the color of her lipstick and the wine in her glass, and Dean can’t help but think it suits her.

“Fine,” he says, smiling as he holds out his arm for her to take, which she does, allowing him to lead her to the sitting room for tea and dessert. “Stings a little, but it’s not too bad.” Dean lets out a chuckle. “Honestly, my pride stings more than the cut.”

Sarah laughs—all bubbly and happy—and when she looks up at Dean, there’s something else in her eyes that gives him pause. “You’re funny, you know?” Then she leans in closer, her lips not quite brushing his ear as she whispers, “If I don’t end up marrying the prince, what do you say about you and I…getting together—oh!”

Dean stumbles back, his arm still around Sarah’s waist as she’s knocked into him and her glass is sent flying. The deep red liquid splashes over the rim and, to both their horror, down the front of Dean’s _white _suit jacket.

Sarah gasps, her hands hovering over the blotchy stain, not quite sure what to do as Dean just stands there, staring down at himself. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” she breathes, and that snaps Dean out of it as she smiles, trying to ease her worries.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says as he takes the jacket off and hands it to the staff member that appears at his side. “It was an accident—no harm done,” and he gives her the brightest smile he can manage before turning away.

“Here, have a drink,” Charlie says when he makes it over to where she’s sitting with Hannah. “You look like you need one.” He takes the glass from her and smiles as he sips the amber whiskey, feeling it burn down his throat and soothe his nerves.

Dean listens to his friends talk for a while, sipping his seemingly bottomless glass as the room gets more and more fuzzy. He blinks a few times, trying to focus on any one thing, but it’s almost impossible. Setting the glass aside, he stumbles to his feet, deciding he needs some pie.

Leaning on the sofa, he makes his way across the room. He knows the cameras are watching him, so he takes extra care, making sure to put one foot in front of the other. When he makes it to the dessert table, he smiles a small, secret smile, extremely pleased that he managed to make it across the room without tripping, stumbling, or falling. The attendant serves him a big piece of cherry pie and holds out the plate before hesitating and pulling it back.

“Sir, would you like me to carry it for you?”

Dean tilts his head with a bemused smile. He can quite focus on the woman’s dark eyes, but he tries his best. “How kind, but I should be fine,” he says, and there’s no mistaking the slur in his voice as he takes the plate from her hand.

It’s only about thirty paces across the room, but it feels like miles all of a sudden. Dean squints, trying to make out Charlie’s flaming hair, but he gives up when the room starts spinning. _Okay_, he thinks, _the faster I go, the quicker I’ll get there._

With that thought in mind, Dean puts one foot in front of the other, and he’s so focussed on his destination, and on keeping his plate steady, that when a foot catches on his, he doesn’t bother to notice the person he throws himself at. His pie gets caught between them and they both go down in a pile of limbs, hitting the floor with a thud that forces the breath from Dean’s lungs.

When he opens his eyes, it’s to finds a pair of startled blues staring back at him only an inch or so away. Dean doesn’t move—caught in the moment as Castiel watches him, their breaths mingling as Dean’s fingers contract on Castiel’s arms.

“Dean,” Castiel whispers, and for a moment, Dean doesn’t understand the panic in his voice. “Dean, _get up_.”

But he doesn’t get the chance before he’s dragged up by his arms. He shouts as they’re pulled back at an awkward angle and he doesn’t even have time to catch his balance before he’s pulled along, stumbling and confused, from the room.

“Wait,” he says as he struggles to keep up. His heart pounds against his rib cage and a tremor of fear runs through him when the guards just hold him tighter, pulling his arms back harder so that he gasps. “_Wait_, what—what did I do wrong?”

They don’t answer but shove him through his bedroom door before locking it behind him. He hits the floor hard, his already bruised face smarting when he doesn’t get his hands up fast enough, but he hardly notices as the reality of what just happened sinks in.

They think he attacked Castiel. They think he _attacked_ him. But that’s insane! Dean would never—not _ever_. But that’s not what they think.

Dean pushes himself up from the floor, his arms shaking and his head spinning, but he ignores that—and the smear of cherry pie, too—as he lunges for the door. His fingers scramble over the handle, but it refuses to turn, and he resorts to yanking on it. Panic swells inside him until he can’t even manage steady breaths—they aren’t going to believe him, but he didn’t _do it_.

Tears come, unbidden, to his eyes and spill down his cheeks as he bangs on the door, beyond terrified, because he fears the worst. He fears that he’ll be charged for the assault of the crown prince—sentenced to prison, or worse. It will affect his family and his freedom, and he’s _terrified_.

Dean doesn’t know how long he waits, but eventually, he moves away from the door and sits on the floor with his back resting against the bed frame. It could be hours that he sits there—and he’s sure it probably is because the next time the door opens, it’s long gone dark outside the glass doors into the garden.

When he looks up, it’s to see Duma closing the door behind her. She looks stressed and _so _tired. He knows it’s his fault, too—she’s the one who will have to sort all this out—and he just wishes he could help, but he’s too goddamned _confused._

“Dean,” she says and tries to force a smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Instead of sitting next to him on the floor, she pulls a chair up in front of him. He doesn’t bother looking at her, staring at her knees instead as he waits for her to speak. “I’m sure you know that you’re in a lot of trouble.”

He nods.

“They think you attacked the prince, and I must say, the evidence against you is pretty damning.” She clears her throat, but still, Dean stares at her knees. There’s a lump rising in his throat, threatening to suffocate him. “They have to investigate, Dean. You understand?” He doesn’t answer—he knows his words mean nothing here—but she reads his thought anyway. “They will take your character into consideration—I’m sure Prince Novak will vouch for you—”

“You don’t know that,” he whispers, finally meeting her eyes as his prickle with tears. “As far as anyone is concerned, I attacked him—_that’s _what he knows. I broke the rules, according to them, and…and I’ll be—fuck.” He buries his face in his hands, his breaths shuddering out of him as he draws his knees up to his chest.

How did he get here? How did this day go from being _so _happy to a nightmare? All the consequences he'll have to face for something he didn't mean to do—they're all flashing in his mind like the world's scariest horror show.

“Dean,” Duma whispers, leaning forward and pulling one hand away from his face. “I can’t make you promises; I won’t lie, it looks bad on the videos, but I know you’re a gentle soul—_he _knows that. There will be a hearing, and you will probably be asked to leave the palace, but I can’t promise anything until I know for sure. However, for the time being, you must be locked in.” His breath catches as dread grows inside him. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

Then she’s gone and the lock clicks behind her.

Dean tries to think everything through—tries to figure out how it all happened—but it’s fuzzy and unclear. What he _does _know, is that it wasn’t an accident. He knows who did—who’s foot caught his at just the right time—but he also knows that there’s nothing he can say.

They have more power than him—their words mean more—and there’s nothing he can do to make anyone believe what really happened. And that’s what they wanted after all, isn’t it? Lily, April, Meg, and Michael _knew _this would happen—that he would be in trouble—because they planned it.

Dean doesn’t sleep that night, but sits on the floor, too scared to drift off—too scared to dream, or to think, or to _breathe_. It feels like everything he does is _wrong _and doing any little thing might just be what sends the rest of the world crashing down around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on Twitter at [allmystars_i](https://twitter.com/allmystars_i)  
~  
Follow me on Tumblr at [allmystars-i](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/allmystars-i)  
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	10. WEEK TWO - Tuesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, y'all! 
> 
> What's this? Another chapter? So soon? 
> 
> It's been so long since I wrote anything for this story that I actually had to reread it to remember what was happening, but here's another chapter after literal MONTHS. Sorry about that, but DCRB and school were keeping me busy.
> 
> Anyway, this one isn't too long, but hopefully, in the next few weeks, I can get more written.
> 
> I hope you're all staying safe and healthy (and at home) during this self-isolation period! 
> 
> Also, check out the end of this chapter for some amazing art from [romachebella](https://archiveofourown.org/users/romachebella), who also did the art for [Find Me In The Light](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21038882), which was my DCBB fic last year. You can find her art for that [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21169028)!
> 
> Anyway, enjoy and let me know what you think!

It’s early—Dean knows that much. Around breakfast time and he’s _starving_. No one comes for him, though. No one brings food, and no matter how long or loud he bangs at the door, the guards refuse to open up.

So, he paces.

Back and forth from wall to wall, probably wearing a rut in the floor, but he doesn’t _care_.

His eyes are swollen and sore from the tears he couldn’t hold back, and he feels sick with worry. At this point, he’s not even sure he can keep any breakfast down.

How did everything get so bad, so fast? One moment, he’s laughing and smiling with his friends, and the next, he’s here, alone and afraid. Worst of all, he has no idea what’s going to happen. To him, or to his family…

And he can’t even _warn_ them! Fuck, this is bad, this is _so _bad.

Dean shoves both hands through his tangled hair, pushing it back from his forehead as he paces. With every step, some new horror pops into his head—like a bad nightmare that has no end. He just wants to _wake up_.

“Calm down,” he whispers to himself. “Calm down; it’s alright.” He braces his hands on the mattress and hangs his head, closing his eyes as he takes deep, soothing breaths. There’s nothing he can do about it—no point dwelling on something he can’t change.

_But I’m innocent_.

And that’s the kicker, isn’t it? No matter what they decide—because of his class, or wealth, or the angles in the videos—_he_ knows he’d never do that to Cas.

The sun rises more quickly this morning, it seems, though time passes like every second takes a minute to tick by. No one comes to see him—not Hannah or Charlie or anyone else—and eventually, he can’t handle the suffocating confines of the four walls of his room.

He’s going crazy, stuck in here without a clue, so he steps into his private little garden, closing his eyes and breathing in the fresh air and the smell of mowed grass as soon as it hits his face. Why didn’t he do this sooner?

The grass is still damp with dew beneath his bare feet, but he sits anyway, though he’s sure Susie will have more than a little to say about wine _and _grass stains on the pristine, day-old white suit she dressed him in.

Meh, whatever.

Dean sits with his back to the fence, his head resting back on the cool wood with a clear view of the door to his room, just in case someone comes to collect him or give him _some _kind of news.

He tries to ignore his stomach, which grumbles loudly and painfully. A headache pinches the space behind his eyes and, as his heart rate starts to calm down, the cut beneath his eye throbs insistently, telling him it’s time for more pain meds that he knows aren’t coming.

Dean practically jumps out of his skin when the door to his room bursts open and shouting from the hall carries through to where he sits in the garden.

He scrambles to his feet, his heart thundering against his ribcage as Susie steps in, a look like the devil on her face as she glowers at the guards, who insist she’s not allowed entrance.

“Get out of my way, boy! My other boy needs to _eat_.” Her boney elbows cut through them and they jump out of the way with looks of real fear in their eyes.

Dean almost breaks down again just at the sight of her.

He steps back into his room as it all comes to the forefront—all the fear and worry and desperation—bubbling up and spilling out of him in the form of heaving, gasping sobs.

“Oh, honey,” Susie says, setting the tray of food on his bed before wrapping him in her arms.

He sinks into her embrace like he would with his own mother, bending low to tuck his face in her neck as he shakes with the force of his sadness. He just doesn’t know what to do, and the ache of loneliness is too much to handle. He wants his family—he wants to go _home_.

She sways back and forth, rubbing his back in soothing circles and whispering sweet words as the scent of her perfume calms him.

He feels like he’s five years old again, with scraped knees, an empty pit in his stomach, and so much sadness, he doesn’t know what to do with it all.

“I d-didn’t do i-it, Suse. I-I didn’t d-do what t-they think-k I d-did.” His breaths hiccup out of him, making anything he tries to say almost incomprehensible.

“I know, sweetheart. I know.” She’s impossibly gentle, and even though it should make him feel better, it doesn’t. Susie’s not gentle, and if she is, it means there’s something wrong. This is serious and she knows it.

He swipes at his tears, berating himself for being so weak. He needs to get himself together—be strong and deal with whatever comes his way. He can’t break down. Not right now.

Susie looks up at him with big, sympathetic eyes. She doesn’t smile, or scowl, or do any of the things she’d normally do. Instead, she leads him to the couch and makes him sit before taking the spot beside him.

“I won’t lie to you, boy. It doesn’t look good.”

Dean takes a deep, shuddering breath, closing his eyes as he nods. He knew this, of course, but hearing it makes it real.

“They’re reviewing the tapes—have been all night—but they’re _inconclusive_, they say. Don’t have a good angle or a clear shot, so they might have no choice—” She cuts herself off, taking a breath before locking her eyes on Dean’s as she takes both of his hands in hers. “There is one angle, but it is damning, boy. It looks like an attack, so they will have to go with that one, and the testaments of the witnesses, to decide what happens to you.”

The pit in Dean’s stomach grows larger, carving out his insides in the most painful way.

“At the very least, they’ll ask you to leave."

"And the worst?" He's not even sure he _wants _to know at this point.

"At the worst? Well, we’ll deal with it if it comes to that.” She gives his hands one more squeeze before releasing them. “Now, eat up, boy. I’m not tailoring any more suits because you’ve grown too thin.”

“Sounds like you won’t have to, anyway,” Dean grumbles, rubbing his eyes with both hands, then hissing as his bruised cheekbone smarts.

“Eat!” Susie snaps, setting the tray on the table in front of him. "If not for my suits, then for your health.”

Dean tries to give her a smile, though it’s brittle and doesn’t reach his eyes, and picks at a few grapes. Despite his earlier hunger, he’s not sure he wants to eat now. His stomach twists and flips, threatening to bring anything up that he tries to force down.

He can feel Susie’s stare on the side of his face as he bypasses the bacon and eggs and goes for the small things. Her concern radiates off of her, and as much as Dean tries to ignore it, she doesn’t let up.

“I’ll talk to him, boy. The Crown Prince—Castiel—I’ll make him see sense.”

“What?” Dean’s eyes snap up to hers. “No! No, you _can’t_, Suse. Please don’t.” He drops the square of cheddar he’d been nibbling on and turns to her more fully.

“Why on earth _not_?” She plants her hands on her hips, that familiar scowl settling into place.

“It’s sound desperate—”

“You _are _desperate!”

“Yeah, but it’ll make me sound _guilty_.” Her head shoots back as her eyes narrow and Dean hurries to explain. “If I try to get _him_ to believe me, it’ll look like I’m going above the investigators. It’ll make me look guilty for suggesting they might find that it’s the truth.”

“But you are _not_ guilty and they’re _still _finding that it’s the truth!” She huffs, her hands flying around her head as her agitation comes to the forefront.

All Dean can do is shrug, his hope waning as defeat settles in his bones. “That’s just how it goes for people like me.”

As soon as the door closes and the lock keeping him in clicks into place, Dean strips out of his two-day-old suit and pulls on the silky night pants he has yet to grow accustomed to and drags the duvet off his bed.

Shivers wrack his body as the temperature outside drops for the first time since he arrived here, though he’s not sure if he’s so cold because of that, or the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him.

Either way, he decides to settle in front of the fireplace, letting the heat of the flames and the thick, down duvet expel the ice from his bones.

It’s only when he’s lying on his side, wrapped up tight as the orange light distorts the room, that he lets himself feel the pain again as tears leak from the corners of his eyes.

He’s never felt so alone—not here, or anywhere else—but the weight of it, and the constant, battering self-doubt, makes him think this is all happening for a reason.

Maybe this is supposed to show him he’s not cut out for this life—he can’t handle the politics and bullshit of it all—and he doesn’t really think he wants to.

He can’t live in a place where everyone hates him, no matter how wonderful Castiel it. He just can’t do that to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on Twitter at [allmystars_i](https://twitter.com/allmystars_i)  
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Follow me on Instagram @allmystars_i


	11. WEEK TWO - Wednesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's funny how I can spend days by myself normally, but as soon as self-isolation hits, all I want to do is call up everyone I've ever met to hang out. (Not actually doing this, and never actually would, but still)
> 
> I was bored. Here's another chapter. I kind of just want to get through the next chapter to write the Friday, Saturday, Sunday chapters because ANGST. It's what feeds my dark and shriveled heart.
> 
> Anyway, this is kind of short. Not much happens except sweet Susie and Dean moments. 
> 
> Probably won't write anything for a few days because of school assignments, but who knows? I lie to myself all the time when it comes to this fic.
> 
> Hope you enjoy anyway!

“Get out of my _way_!”

Dean jerks awake, his eyes flying wide as a door slams and more grumbling follows.

“Damn, men. Stupid, stupid _men_.” The grumbling comes to an immediate halt as Dean lifts his head, rubbing at his uninjured eye as his neck cracks, protesting a night on the floor. “Boy? Where are you?”

“Here,” Dean mumbles, groaning as he shifts and his back gives several loud pops. God, he should’ve moved to his bed when he had the chance.

Susie stomps over, hands on hips and a scowl in place. “Get off the floor—you aren’t some _dog_, no matter how they treat you. Have some _dignity_.” She huffs and puffs, waving for him to get up, and he does, hauling himself up off the floor and ignoring the way she glowers at the blanket-creases lining the side of his face.

“What dignity?” he murmurs, dragging the duvet over his shoulders and wearing it like a cape as he rounds the table and heads for the bathroom.

Susie follows close behind, and before he can stop her, she tugs off the blanket and tosses it aside. "Mr. Winchester—“

“Gotta pee, Suse.” He shuts the door in her face, glad for the bit of peace it gives him.

Until he steps back into his room and comes face to face with pursed lips and a _very _pointy finger.

“I don’t care how sad you are, boy, you _will not _let them make you feel less than you are, do you hear?” She doesn’t break eye-contact, obviously expecting an answer, but Dean doesn’t know what to say.

Shocked speechless, he stands there with his lips parted and emotion swelling up in the back of his throat. He swallows hard, forcing the tears back as he nods and steps past her.

“Thanks for the food,” he says when he sees the tray sitting on his bed, filled with more than he’d ever eat, and definitely more than he can eat with the lump in his throat. “Any news?”

He doesn’t look at her as he asks, doing his best to sound calm and disinterested, and failing miserably at all of it.

“Well… Yes, actually, there is something.” Dean’s heart drops when she hesitates because he knows what that means. It’s bad—worse than he’d hoped for. “Well, sit down then, dear.”

Dean doesn’t move, standing by his bed, half-turned toward her with a couple of fingers hovering over the slices of bacon he won’t be taking anymore.

“Fine, fine. Stay standing.” She waves him off but lowers herself to the edge of the unmade bed. “Nothing, boy. There’s nothing to let you off.”

At first, he thinks he hears wrong. That can’t be right—there’s gotta be _something_. But the look in her eyes tells him there’s not, and Dean drops down onto the bed beside her, at a loss for words.

“They will have to charge you or pardon you. Now, I can’t imagine Castiel _not _going for the pardon, but that boy never does what he’s told.” She pauses, looking to the ceiling for a moment before pursing her lips. “That might be good, actually. Hm…”

“What? Why would it be—”

“They will tell him to convict—not to pardon—because of how it looks to let you off after being accused.” Susie sighs, and it really doesn’t look like she believes the words she’s telling him—that Castiel will let him off despite the duty he’s bound to—and just seeing her doubt, dissipates any hope he had left.

“Why don’t they ask _me _what happened? Susie, they could ask _me_.” That’s what’s been bugging him—not a _single _person has come to get his side of the story, and he’s starting to worry that they’re not going to.

“You know why,” Susie whispers, so soft he almost doesn’t here, but the words cut deep. He _does _know why—of course, he does—but he can’t _possibly _believe they’d take something so ridiculous as his class status into consideration when conducting an investigation that could alter the rest of _his _life. Right?

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Dean whispers, his voice cracking as he pushes himself up and marches to the bathroom. He needs a distraction, and a shower, so he might as well kill two birds with one stone.

“Mr. Winchester, I really think we should discuss—”

The roar of the water cuts over her, drowning out her voice as Dean drops his sleep pants to the floor, unconcerned with the fact that Susie’s right behind him. He slides the glass panel aside and steps in, closing the door behind him for some modicum of privacy as he refuses to meet Susie’s eyes.

She doesn’t give up, though—gathering his laundry and arranging his outfit as he washes his own hair for the first time in a week and a half. It feels good to do something for himself, though it’s not overly distracting, and his mind wanders back to the other suitors.

No one’s told him anything about the competition, and he missed yesterday’s interview, so there really is no telling what’s going on. Are they carrying on as usual? If so, who’s on the date? Or are they still _having _the dates, what with the investigation and all?

He has no idea, and he’s not even entirely sure he _wants _to know. Would it make him feel better if they carried on? Or is it better if the whole thing stops?

Susie raps on the glass before he can figure any of it out and waves her hands in a _hurry-up _motion. He rolls his eyes, but only when her back is turned.

Dean tugs the t-shirt over his head, not bothering to dry his hair and letting it soak the white cotton at his collar until it’s see-through. He doesn’t care what Susie says, and he doesn’t care that he’s not bothering to brush his teeth or even look in the mirror, either.

He’s tired, and he doesn’t care.

“I will explain to you,” Susie says when Dean steps out of the bathroom. “Why I was so testy on Sunday.”

Dean doesn’t have it in him to argue as he drags his bare feet across the floor and practically falls onto the couch beside her. "Have at it."

“My husband is sick. He’s in the hospital.”

Dean stops, hand extended in mid-air as he reaches for the tray of food. He looks over at her, seeing the wall she’s built up between herself and her feelings firmly in place. He sees the way it trembles as she refuses to meet his eyes, and his heart breaks for her with every new crack that forms.

“Sunday was worse. Sunday I thought he would die.” A few more cracks as she shakes her head.

“Fuck, Suse, why aren’t you there? Why weren’t you with him Sunday?” Guilt floods in fast and hard, consuming him with the trivialities of this whole competition, and how everything is put on hold for _everyone_ when she’s got a husband who’s _dying_.

“He only sleeps nowadays. I can’t bear to watch him die like that, and we need the money, so—” She cuts herself off with a shrug, but Dean sees the way her eyes squint a little tighter, and her lips purse a little more. “If I can make enough for the treatment, maybe…”

“Wait, the palace doesn’t pay for medical insurance?” Dean would’ve thought they’d take better care of their staff than that, and honestly, he’s pissed that they don’t.

“Not enough, and my husband—God, that stubborn man—refuses help. Him and his damn _pride_.” She shakes her head, a bit of her usual attitude shining through, but it’s gone as fast as it comes. “He won’t let me ask and I just can’t watch him die.”

The cracks splinter, then shatter as tears fall from her eyes. Dean wraps an arm around her shoulders without even thinking, drawing her in and holding her close.

She doesn’t fight him, taking the comfort that’s offered as she cries. They’re silent tears, and Dean gets the feeling they’re _always _silent tears. His heart breaks for her and continues to break with every hitched breath and soft sniffle.

They stay like that for most of the day, taking comfort in each other. Dean knows without asking that he’s not to mention this—her moment of emotion is something she trusts him with, and he’s not about to betray that.

She tells him about her family as the sun rises and sets again. They clean off the tray of food, picking at it absently between stories of first dates and botched dinner surprises. Dean learns all about how they met, where they fell in love, and when they both got hired to work in the palace—Susie doing what she does, and her husband working in the kitchens.

The longer he listens, the more it sinks in that every single person he’s met in this palace has a life outside of serving the royal family, and he can’t help but wonder how many others have forgotten that, too?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on Twitter at [allmystars_i](https://twitter.com/allmystars_i)  
~  
Follow me on Tumblr at [allmystars-i](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/allmystars-i)  
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Follow me on Instagram @allmystars_i


	12. WEEK TWO - Thursday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should be doing school work. 
> 
> It's fine. I'll do it tomorrow.
> 
> Anyway, this one's longer than I expected, but I really just wanted to get them out of the way so I can write the other ones. I miss Dean/Cas interactions so you can bet your ass it's going to be in the next chapter!
> 
> Okay, hope you like this one!

The sun filters through the windows, harsh and bright, heating Dean’s face and warming the room until he can’t stand to be under the blankets a second longer.

He groans, his head pounding as he rolls over, dropping his feet to the floor and closing his eyes as he prepares to stand.

His mouth tastes like he hasn’t brushed his teeth in a week and the ache in his eyes only gets worse when he rubs them. God, he feels like absolute shit on a stick.

“Who opened the fucking blinds?” he grumbles, though he doesn’t bother to close them, or even look to see if he's alone. He needs some water and probably a couple of painkillers. God, what time is it? Why is the sun so goddamn _bright_?

Dean glances at the clock, finding it to be well into the afternoon, and he can’t even dredge up the energy to care. He blinks a few times, still adjusting to the light, and pushes to his feet.

He stumbles, all the blood rushing to his feet as the room spins around him, and he hits the door with a thud, catching himself before he crumbles to the floor.

So, a shit day, then? Sounds about right.

When he feels stable enough to move, Dean braces himself against the wall, knocking into paintings and decorative tables, and makes his way to the couch where a tray full of food waits for him. He’s not really all that hungry, but he’d bet his fancy sleep pants that that’s why he almost fainted.

He’s just about to sit down when he looks up through the window at his garden and stops. It’s such a nice day, and he knows he’ll miss the tiny oasis when he’s gone, so he picks up the tray with shaky hands and pushes through the glass door.

Even in nothing but his sleep pants, it’s warm, but a cool breeze ruffles his matted and tangled hair and the sunshine warms his face as he wanders through the flowers to the little bench in the back corner where he sets the tray down and lowers himself to the grass.

Seems like Susie’s given up on getting him to eat his greens since the plate is more or less piled with anything but. Although, that could be because the meal she brought him is from lunch.

Dean picks at the food, sifting through it before making a tiny sandwich from two crackers, some Swiss cheese, and salami. He stuffs it all in his mouth in one go and instantly regrets it as the crackers suck the moisture from his mouth.

He coughs, spraying crackers everywhere in an attempt to keep himself from choking. God, wouldn’t that be embarrassing—they come to toss him in jail and he’s already suffocated on a piece of meat? And not even the good kind? Terrible.

Dean washes it down with a sip of water, relishing in the coolness as it slides down his throat. But he chokes on that too when voices carry through the fences from the rest of the grounds.

“You think they’re going to pardon him?” Dean holds his breath, his heart drumming against his rib cage as he leans closer. It sounds like Kelly, but he can’t be sure.

“Honestly? No. The prince might not think he did it on purpose, but he still did it.” Sarah, that’s definitely Sarah. “But, going on a date with Lily? I don’t know, Kels…”

“Yeah,” Kelly whispers, and Dean’s stomach drops. Cas did that? Really? Even with the investigation and everything going on, he _still_ chose to go on a date with her?

Anger and betrayal bubble up inside Dean in equal measure, threatening to boil over as tears burn the back of his throat. He clenches his teeth to keep himself quiet and leans into the thick vines that wind their way over the fence.

“So, who do you think it’ll be?” Kelly's voice perks up a bit as they hover on the other side of the fence, right by the place where Dean sits.

Kelly hums as Dean shifts closer, his head pounding and his muscles protesting the awkward position, but he ignores it all, wanting to know what they think.

“It’s…it’s gotta be Dean, right? Even if he’s pardoned, he can’t stay, can he?” Something in Sarah’s voice sounds almost hopeful, and it hurts, but Dean can’t really expect anything else. If not him, then why not her, right? It still stings, though—reminds him they’re not here to make friends.

Any hopes he’d had at keeping in touch with anyone afterward are dashed in an instant. Even if he wasn’t getting kicked out—probably very publicly and in handcuffs—he’s sure none of them would give him a call. They haven’t even tried to _visit_, for fuck’s sake.

Dean pulls his knees up to his chest and buries his face in his hands as he’s wracked with waves of sadness. He just wants to go _home_. He never should’ve put his name in for this whole thing in the first place. At this point, he doesn’t even think _Castiel Novak _is worth it—not if he’s willing to leave Dean hanging for so long while going on dates with _Lily Sunder_.

“Food!”

Dean doesn’t bother lifting his head from his hands when he hears the shout from inside his room. He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting here for, but it’s gone quiet in the rest of the grounds, so it’s gotta be dinner.

His lunch tray sits mostly untouched beside him and his head still pounds, but now his hands shake and his vision is a little blurry when he opens his eyes.

“Boy, where are you?”

“Here,” Dean says, but it barely whispers past his lips; not nearly loud enough for even him to hear. He hears Susie’s polished shoes when they hit the stone just outside the glass doors.

“There you are! I brought you some dinner—” She gasps, stopping in her tracks. “_Nothing_? You ate _nothing_? Mr. Winchester, you need to eat.”

Dean drags his head from his hands, looking up at her with groggy eyes. She shifts and blurs in front of him and just that makes him feel sick, so he closes his eyes and waits for the world to stop spinning before he tries again.

“Not hungry.” That’s a lie, of course. Well, kind of—he needs to eat, but with the way his stomach clenches at the thought of food, he’s positive it’d just end up all over the grass before it did him any good.

“_Eat_,” Susie says, setting the tray by his side before picking up the still-full lunch tray and stomping back into his room.

Dean watches her go, feeling just a little bit guilty for the stress he’s causing her, so he reaches for his plate of steaming lasagna, bringing it to his lap with shaking hands.

His breaths shudder from his lungs as he fights to keep from gagging, but eventually, he manages a small bite, chewing slowly before swallowing past the lump in his throat.

Dean thinks it might actually taste good if he could taste it at all. Then again, everything in the palace tastes good—even the rabbit food.

Keeping his eyes closed helps, and after a few bites, he finds that he actually does feel a little bit better.

“Oh, good,” Susie says when she joins him outside. Dean tries to smile, but it falls immediately when his stomach turns and he snaps his eyes shut again.

Susie doesn’t try to talk to him as he eats, letting him do his thing. Maybe she’s just worried she’ll upset him with more news, or maybe there _is _no news. Either way, he’s beyond grateful.

When he’s done, he sets the plate aside, leaving half the lasagna untouched, but it’s more than he’s eaten all day and Susie looks relieved as the lines around her eyes and mouth soften.

“Thanks, Suse. “ _For everything_. She smiles at him and gives his hand a light squeeze. Dean pauses for a moment, leaning back against the bench and tilting his face to the sky. Then, in a soft, shaky voice, he asks, “Why haven’t my friends come?”

In that moment, he just feels so _fragile_. Like the softest breeze could blow him to pieces, and maybe that’s why the tears fall, then, unbidden and unwanted. They slide down his cheeks as he drops his head back down, not bothering to wipe his eyes.

“Oh, honey, you know why. They’re not _allowed_. Don’t be making up lies in that pretty little head of yours, huh? They’d be here if they could.” She strokes her fingers through his hair, not even making a face at the tangles, before brushing the tears from his cheeks.

He leans into her, letting himself break for a moment and taking comfort in her presence. What would he do without her?

“Excuse me?”

Dean just about jumps out of his skin when a third voice joins them from the entrance, and his eyes snap open to seen Benny, a member of the prince’s personal guard, standing there in a dark suit looking between the two of them.

Susie pushes herself to her feet and storms over, leaving Dean to get himself together.

“What?” Susie snaps, her scowl in place once more, but Dean can’t even find it in him to be grateful it’s not directed at him. “What do you want? Why are you here?”

“Orders from the boss, ma’am; I’m just here to do my job.” Benny looks over Susie’s shoulder at Dean, meeting his eyes for a moment before looking back down at Susie, who refuses to move. “I need to get his story.”

Dean perks up at that.

“I thought he wasn’t getting to tell his side?” Susie says, planting her hands on her hips, but Benny doesn’t back down.

“It wasn't considered important until now—”

“Not important? _Not important_? Why in the world would it not be _important_? Oh, just wait until I get my hands on—”

“That'll be good, Suse,” Dean says, cutting her off as he pushes to his feet, more than a little aware of his state of undress, but he tries to ignore it as he rests a hand on her shoulder and leans down to whisper in her ear. “This is a good thing, right? No need to fight this one.”

Susie looks at him for a moment, her deep brown eyes surveying him before she nods. “I’ll be inside.” Then she’s gone, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

“Right…” Benny clears his throat as he pills out a little notebook and a pen and leads Dean back to the bench where they both take a seat. “I just need you to go over the events of Monday night in as much detail as possible. If you think it’s important, don’t hold back, got it?”

So Dean doesn’t.

He tells Benny everything from earlier that day at breakfast, to the threats in the grounds, and even his suspicions that Lily, Meg, and Michael had been planning to have him kicked out, no matter the consequences.

Benny’s pen flies across the page, taking everything down, and when Dean is done, Benny takes a moment to read it all over before standing.

“I’m gonna be honest with you, Dean. This probably won’t do anything,” he says, holding up the notebook, and Dean’s heart sinks. “They’re some pretty influential people, and they’ve got ways of getting what they want. Just want you to know that. You know, before it doesn’t go your way. Just so you know.”

Dean sits there long after Benny's gone, exhausted and numb. Eventually, he forces himself to get up and drags his feet inside. He doesn’t look at Susie, who sits in a chair by the fireplace, knitting what looks like the beginnings of a very colorful scarf, and crawls under his blankets, too tired to do anything but lie there.

After a few minutes of quiet sniffling and staring out the window, soft fingers stroke through his hair, followed by the low tunes of a lullaby—one his mom would sing to him. Dean closes his eyes, taking comfort in the familiarity of the song. 

It doesn’t take him long to fall asleep, and when he does, he’s not worrying about what tomorrow will bring. He’s not sure he wants to know, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on Twitter at [allmystars_i](https://twitter.com/allmystars_i)  
~  
Follow me on Tumblr at [allmystars-i](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/allmystars-i)  
~  
Follow me on Instagram @allmystars_i


	13. WEEK TWO - Friday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn't realized how much I missed writing Castiel in this story until I wrote this, and now I just want to write the Sunday chapter, because there's so much Castiel in that one. 
> 
> Also, four chapters in three days? What am I doing? Not my homework, that's for sure. Probably nothing more until after Thursday, though, so this one is a bit longer.
> 
> A picture of Dean's suit is linked if y'all want to see. Yes, I have a thing for suits, don't judge lol.
> 
> I hope you like it despite the angst. Things do get better for poor Dean! Let me know your thoughts!

“Mr. Winchester? Mr. Winchester, wake up.”

Dean cracks his eyes open, half his face buried in a pillow as drool wets his cheek. He squints up at Susie, who bends over him, shaking his shoulder.

“What?” he groans, turning his face into the soft bedding. It’s too bright out and he’s _tired_.

“Mr. Winchester, I... I need to get you ready.” The hesitance in her voice catches his attention and he frowns. Ready for what? “You must attend the ceremony, boy.”

Dean’s stomach drops, realizing what this must mean. They’re sending him home, and they’re doing it on national television. Great.

He doesn’t argue, though. There’s nothing he can do, right? And, hey, look at the bright side—if they’re letting him attend the ceremony, that must mean he’s pardoned, _right_?

It doesn’t make him feel better, but he gets up anyway, following Susie to the bathroom for the painstaking process of getting camera-ready.

Dean lets his mind wander as Susie rinses the shampoo from his hair—tipping his head back and closing his eyes as he tries not to feel the anxiety swelling up inside him. He knew he’d have to face everyone eventually, but tonight? _And _getting sent home at the same time? That's just cruel.

In a way, he wishes he’d known earlier, but he’s also grateful for such short notice—gives him less time to stress.

When he’s clean, Susie lets him dry himself off, knowing how much he hates it when she does it—something he will _never _get used to no matter how long he’s here. Then, she sits him down on his stool in front of the vanity mirror and shaves his over-grown stubble with smooth, precise movements. It’s methodic, the way she works, and Dean’s grateful for the calm, cool, and collected Susie he’s getting right now. It eases the sick feeling in his stomach as she pats his cheeks with aftershave before pulling out the blowdryer.

When his hair is dried and gelled, she starts on his camera makeup—her quick, practiced movements endlessly comforting. He watches her face as she works—the shallow wrinkles in the corners of her eyes and the laugh-lines by her lips. She's severe and a little mean at times, but he can't help but feel how insanely lucky he is to have a stylist like her—someone to devoutly passionate about her job and her clients. He doesn't know what he would've done without her this week.

“Now listen up, boy, and listen close. There’s some things you need to remember, got it?” She never once looks away from what she’s going as Dean’s eyes move to hers.

“Yes, ma’am,” he mumbles, doing his best to keep his mouth still.

“Good.” She steps back for a moment, surveying her work before scowling and diving back in with a brush. “Now, remember you are _innocent_. You know it and _I _know it, and it might not be much, but you better make it enough.”

“You stand tall—confidence, my boy.”

Dean straightens his shoulders and back, and looks into the floor-length mirror in front of him. He’s on his pedestal once again, in nothing but his underwear as Susie holds suits up to his chest—not one of them good enough for _her boy_.

“They’re no better than you, just because they have money—remember that. Often, they are much worse.” Her voice echoes from the back of the closet as she digs through the rows and rows of the finest silk, wool, and cashmere in the whole country.

Dean cracks a small, half-smile. “Thanks, Suse,” he whispers, though he’s quickly distracted by his reflection. Has he lost weight? Fuck, he has, hasn’t he? Even with the makeup, the angles in his face are sharper—harsher—and he’s _so _pale. Fuck, this is going to be a shit show.

“Hey! Hey, boy! Look at me!” Susie pulls him around, making him meet her eyes as she stares up at him, a good foot and a half shorter. She gets to work dressing him in whatever was clutched in her hands while she speaks. “I don’t care what anyone says about you, you hear me? I don’t care what _you _say about you. _I _know you.”

Dean nods as she tugs his pants up his legs, maybe a little rougher than she needs to, and he stumbles a bit before steadying himself on her shoulder.

“I won’t have anyone bad-mouthing my boy, got it? _No one_.” She points a neatly trimmed nail in his face and his heart clenches as emotion swells in his chest. He’s _never _had anyone defend him like that.

She pulls a white silk button-down over his shoulders, buttoning faster than he’s ever seen. “You are a _sweet_ boy. A good, kind man, and if his highness can’t see that, well, he doesn’t deserve such a wonderful husband.”

But he _wants _Castiel to deserve him—to _want _to deserve him, at the very least—and having his hopes crash and burn right before his eyes is the worst kind of pain he’s ever felt. He wanted it to be him so badly, and how that it won't be, he doesn't know what to do.

“I love that boy like a son, Mr. Winchester, but he’s _far _from perfect. He’s a good boy, and a good prince, but sometimes…” Susie trails off with a sigh, smoothing a hand over her pristine hair before pulling Dean’s vest on, then the jacket, doing up all the buttons on those, too. “Sometimes, he hurts himself for the sake of duty. Too much, I say—he hurts himself all the time.”

Somehow, Dean doesn’t believe that. With the power of being a prince, how could he _not _get everything he wants? Dean can’t imagine it, especially having lived on the other side—so deep in poverty, he didn’t know where his next meal would come from, or if it’d come at all.

Susie fixes his collar, smoothing it out before tucking his tie under the vest, clipping on his cufflinks, and sliding a handkerchief into his pocket. “There. So handsome.”

She turns him back to the mirror, showing him the [three-piece, grey, plaid suit](https://flic.kr/p/2iH6EMX) she’s dressed him in. It looks good, he’s won’t lie, but the dark circles under his eyes and the hollows in his cheeks don’t have a chance in hell of hiding from the harsh lights of the camera.

“Could you maybe just touch up my—”

Several raps on the door draw their attention and Susie hurries from the dressing room to get the door.

“Shoes on, Mr. Winchester!” she calls back to him. “Time to go.”

Dean sighs, closing his eyes one more time to gather himself as he takes deep, steadying breaths. This is it; he’s out of time.

Dean steps into his shoes, taking his time with the laces before he’s finally done all the delaying he can. He heads for the door, holding Susie’s eyes the whole way, and when he reaches her side, he sweeps her up in a crushing hug.

“Thank you,” he whispers, choking up a little, but this is probably the last time he’ll ever see her, and that hurts so much worse than he thought it would. “For _everything_. Seriously, Suse.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she says, shooing his away as she pulls back, wiping at her eyes before cupping his cheek in the palm of her hand with a soft smile. “Remember, my dear boy, you deserve the world.”

Then he’s ushered out the door, leaving his room behind. He wishes he’d taken a better look around, now that he’ll never see it again, especially in the garden.

Sadness seeps into his bones even as his pulse pounds in his ears with every step he takes. He’s flanked on either side by guards, like a criminal, even if it _is _standard protocol.

He makes sure to look at all the gold-trimmed paintings and priceless vases as he’s led to the garden room. He’s only been there once, but he can still picture the open doors and twisting vines that grow on every surface.

He remembers it being beautiful and those memories don’t deceive him in the least.

The best part about being locked in his room for most of the week is that being let out feels like he’s experiencing everything for the first time again, leaving no room for the vomit-inducing nerves that had been curdling his stomach all afternoon. So, he takes in the sight of the ceremony room without fear, his eyes wandering the space even before he gets all the way inside.

“Dean!”

“Oh my God, Winchester!”

Two sets of arms are around his neck, squeezing tight before he fully steps into the room, but he hugs them back, not caring that every pair of eyes is now on him.

“How are you?”

“What’s happening?”

“Why are you here?”

“We tried to visit, but—”

Dean lets them go but doesn’t try to answer their questions. He’s not even sure he _has _the answers, and everything that’s happened over the last few days comes swelling back all at once, choking him up and dragging him down.

It’s so overwhelming that all he can do is turn away from them and head for one of the open doors before he starts to hyperventilate.

He braces himself against the wall, closing his eyes and blocking out the rest of the room—all the shouting of the crew, and the whispering of the suitors. Even Charlie and Hannah, who stand a little ways away, though he’s not sure if they’re trying to talk to him at all now.

Why couldn’t they just let him go quietly? Is the show really that important that they need to put him through every bit of suffering they can, just to get the viewers? If he had any energy at all, he’d be pissed as all hell, but as it stands, he can’t even summon up the enthusiasm to speak to his friends, who are currently doing their damnedest to cheer him up and make him smile.

“Mr. Winchester?”

Dean jumps at the sound of his name, opening his eyes to look down at the short, scrawny man in a headset.

“I need you to step up on your platform now.” His voice is flat and professional, and somehow, it gives Dean the energy to do as he’s told. If he can just get through the next half-hour, he’ll be free of this humiliating ordeal.

With his hands folded in front of him, Dean stares straight ahead, doing his best to ignore Meg, April, and Lily, who won’t stop looking back at him with triumphant little smirks, like they know exactly how this is going to go before it's even started.

He can’t help but feel entirely too bitter with how beautiful they all are, though, and he’s sure one of them will make it through to the end. One of _them _will be on Castiel’s arm for the rest of their lives, and just the thought of having to see that for himself hurts more than he expects.

But then the chatter quiets down and Dean turns his eyes to the door.

“Camera’s, rolling, and… Duma,” Mick says, pointing to Duma, who stands in a pristine, light grey pantsuit.

“After an eventful week, here we are once again. Prince Novak will be sending another unfit suitor on their way.” She looks right at Dean as she says it, and heat burns up his neck and into his cheeks as she all but confirms what he already knows. “Tonight, you may have to say goodbye to a favorite or cheer the departure of one to whom you have no attachment. Whichever the case, it’s only moments away.” She takes a deep breath and flashes a smile. “Without further ado, his royal highness, Crown Prince Castiel Novak.”

Most of the suitors clap, some cheer and shoot doe-eyed smiles at the door, and others look on serenely. Dean drops his chin.

Then he’s there—he’s _right _there—and Dean feels his presence like an electric charge. Dean can _feel _his sharp, blue eyes burning into him, and he can’t help but look up, only for a second.

But Castiel’s not looking, and he probably never was.

“Good evening, and welcome to the second selection ceremony.” His deep, gravelly voice rolls over Dean, sinking into his bones and dragging him deeper into himself. “After tonight, nine of you will remain, and I will be sorry to see one of you go, but it is a sacrifice that must be made.”

Dean’s heart clenches and he hopes to God the cameras don’t catch him flinch.

“It’s been wonderful getting to know each and every one of you over the last week, and I can only hope you feel the same. Now, without any more preamble...”

Dean pictures Castiel plucking up a single, sapphire rose, holding it between two gloved fingers. He can see the royal garb, with the mantle draped over his shoulders and various service medals pinned to his military jacket.

Dean won’t be getting another one of those roses.

The thought almost breaks him—it’s so overwhelming he has to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep it together. He can’t do this, but he _has _to. They won’t let him do anything else.

“Hannah…”

The list of names continues, jumping all over the place as person after person steps down from their platform, accepts their rose with enthusiasm, before practically dancing back to their place. _Michael, April, Sarah, Jo, Charlie, Kelly, Meg…_

The only thing Dean cares about is that none of them are him.

“The final rose,” Duma says, and it seems far too quick. Dean’s heart stutters and he finds himself almost frantic because he wants more _time_. It’s not enough—not _nearly _enough. But it’s all he gets, and he should be used to that by now.

“This week has been an enlightening one. I have been able to get to know you all in a deeper, more intimate way, but it makes this decision no easier. The one who will leave us tonight has shown they are not meant to rule beside me, despite their desire to do so, anyway.”

Dean opens his eyes and lifts his chin, remembering Susie’s words—_stand tall, my boy. Chin up_. He refuses to let her down. He will _not _avert his gaze, and he _will _take it with the strength and grace she’s so sure he possesses.

“It takes courage to lead. One must be honest, not only to their people but to themselves. They must look into the face of adversity and understand that it takes honour and perseverance to make a great leader.”

Dean feels Castiel’s gaze on him one last time, and this time he meets it. Blue eyes blaze into his, fierce and unwavering. Dean clenches his jaw but refuses to look away.

“This final rose,” he whispers, curling it between finger and thumb. He breaks their eye contact, looking down at the soft petals... squeezing his eyes shut and opening them again.

Dean closes his eyes and all the air in his lungs loses its oxygen. This is it.

“Dean.”

Dean’s eyes fly open as his heart riots in his chest, but he must have heard wrong. Surely, he heard wrong—

But all eyes are on him—some shocked, some happy, and some so goddamned pissed that if looks could kill, he’d be six feet under.

And, fuck, now he’s just so _fucking_ confused. He could _cry _with all the feelings overwhelming him. It’s like emotional whiplash and he just wants it to _stop_.

But he takes a deep breath, steels himself, and steps off his platform, taking slow steps to the front of the room.

With all his earlier courage gone, he can’t meet Castiel’s eyes. After so long without seeing, or hearing from him, and now he’s right _here_. Close enough to hear the even push and pull of his breath, and to smell his expensive cologne. Castiel’s right _here_, and for the love of God, Dean doesn’t have a clue why he is_ too_.

“Dean,” Castiel whispers, but still, Dean can’t look up. He feels so fragile—like any little thing will shatter him in this moment. “Dean.”

Dean waits for the rest of the words. _Will you accept this rose?_ But they don’t come—not until he lifts his eyes to that startlingly blue gaze.

Castiel doesn’t smile—not with his mouth, anyway—but his _eyes_. God, they shine like their lit with a billion stars.

“Will you accept this rose?”

He sucks in a sharp breath, biting down hard on his bottom lip has it quivers, and pulls himself together as best he can, before answering—his voice stronger than he could’ve hoped for. “Yes.”

He might be mistaken, but he would swear that in that moment, Castiel lets out a breath—like all his worldly troubles have just been solved—and Dean can’t help the bitter resentment curdling inside him.

He takes the rose from Castiel’s fingers and spins on his heel, heading back to his platform without another word.

He’s just stepped up onto his level at the back corner of the suitors when his head snaps up, and he's not the only one—not even close.

Every person in the room holds their breath as Lily stomps up to Castiel, spitting mad and red in the face.

Two guards step in front of the prince to block her, but he holds up his hand, allowing her to say her piece.

“Why?” she snaps, her eyes burning into his as he looks back, calm and collected as ever.

Dean watches as closely as everyone else when Castiel answers, their curiosity getting the best of them as they lean forward, but his response is too low for them to hear.

Lily scoffs, her head shooting back in disbelief as she glares at him with utter disgust before storming out of the room, followed closely by two palace guards.

“If you would all join the prince for the toast,” Duma says, drawing their attention back to the derailing ceremony, and they all step down from their places, roses clutched to their chests'.

Dean takes the glass that’s pushed into his hand, but he’s not really feeling it. All the emotions he’s been holding back all night are right under the surface, mixing with the hurt, anger, and confusion bubbling inside him.

He doesn’t even hear the toast, and he doesn’t really care as he downs the champagne in one go and sets the empty glass on the table as the rest of the suitors cheer.

“Dean, that was awesome, right?" Charlie says, bustling up to his side with a wicked grin. "Wait, where are you going?”

He doesn’t bother sticking around for the chit-chat, shoving through the doors without a backward glance.

It’s too much—it’s all just _too much_—and he needs to get out.

His shoes echo off the marble floors, carrying through the halls as he hurries back to his room. He just needs to make it there. Just to his room, then he can let go. Then he can feel.

But in the shadowed halls, with their dark, ancient beauty, he can’t quite manage it, and the dam bursts as tears blur his vision.

How did this happen? How is he _here_?

_Why_?

Lily asked the question, but he wants the answer too. He _needs _it because this whole _not knowing _thing is tearing him apart.

Dean swipes at his eyes as hiccuping sobs shake him, building in his chest as he fights to hold them back. He quickens his pace until the door to his room is in sight, and as soon as he’s inside, he lets it all go, collapsing into his pillows as he’s wracked with painful sobs and, suddenly, the room that had become his prison cell, now feels like the safest place in the whole world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on Twitter at [allmystars_i](https://twitter.com/allmystars_i)  
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	14. WEEK TWO - Saturday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been reading my outlines for the next week of chapters and I'm just so excited for them! So, yeah, the Sunday chapter will probably happen soon because I forgot how much fun writing this story is and, apparently, my homework doesn't take nearly as long to do as I think it does.
> 
> Anyway, the angst is almost over, so don't worry! Questions will be answered and we can all get back to happy Dean/Cas!
> 
> Let me know what you think!

"Okay," Dean murmurs, standing at his door in nothing but his sleep pants and a light blue, knit sweater. It's early, he knows that much—long before anyone else will be up for breakfast, judging by the deep blue of the horizon beyond the garden fence. "You can do it. Just go get breakfast. Yeah, that's it—just get your food and bring it here. Easy."

He bounces on the balls of his feet, which remain bare and a little cold, shaking his hands out as he hypes himself up.

Before he can talk himself out of it again, he swings the door open and steps out, the icy floors sending shivers through him as his heart thunders in his chest, a sick twist turning his stomach. He pushes the feeling away.

"Okay... to the dining hall." He starts moving, keeping his pace steady and his head high.

The palace is mostly empty at this hour, only the odd member of staff hurrying through the halls, who give him soft smiles and short nods. The odd guard stands outside certain rooms, but they don't seem to notice him, and he's thankful for that.

It's not until he's almost to the dining hall that he hears voices, and he can't help but slow his stride as he comes closer.

"Why would you think that was a _good_ idea?" A voice hisses beyond the closed door. Dean doesn't recognize it, but he leans closer, trying to hear the reply.

"That's none of your concern." Dean twitches because he _does _recognize that voice. Castiel's low rumble floats through the space, filling it with tension. "My choices are mine alone."

"You know that's not true," she spits, her voice getting more and more venomous by the second, and Dean doesn't envy Castiel one bit. "We will all suffer because of your selfishness."

There's a long pause and Dean holds his breath, listening as feet shuffle closer. "Then so be it," Castiel says, and Dean's so distracted by the meaning of those words that he almost doesn't notice the rattling of the doorknob.

Dean looks around, frantic as he tries to find somewhere to hide, but the only option he can find is to retrace his steps to make it look like he hadn't been eavesdropping. He does so, taking about five steps back.

The door swings open just as Dean turns back around, and he doesn't have to fake his surprise when Castiel steps out, because seeing the Crown Prince in nothing but a pair of jogging pants and a tight, sweat-soaked t-shirt is probably the most shocking things Dean's ever laid eyes on.

"Dean," Castiel says, and there's no mistaking his delight. "Good morning."

"Morning, Prince Novak.” Dean forces a smile, but it's shaky. All the confusion and anger from the night before swells up again and he has to force it back down so he doesn't burst into an angry rant or collapse in tears.

“Please, just Castiel. Or Cas, if you will.” Castiel’s smile falters a little when all Dean does is nod. “What are you doing up? It's barely five o'clock?" He looks up at the grandfather clock against the opposite wall, a small frown creasing his brows as his eyes shine in the low light of the hallway.

"Uh..." Dean hesitates as he starts walking again, debating whether or not he wants to share his reasoning. "Getting breakfast." He waits for Castiel's response, but it doesn't come. Instead, he keeps pace beside Dean, hands tucked behind his back and smelling so good it fogs up Dean's brain.

"Do you mind if I join you?"

Seriously? _Seriously_? After everything that's happened, that's all he has to say? He's not even going to _try _to explain himself along the way before they get to what will inevitably be a room filled with kitchen staff?

Dean's face crumples a little, contorting with anger and more than a little confusion. He doesn't get it, and he's just about had enough of being jerked around like this.

"I—"

"Excuse me, your highness?"

Dean looks up when a man rounds the corner, stopping in front of them and drawing Castiel's attention away.

Castiel glances at Dean for a moment, then back to the man, who appears to be an advisor of some sort. "Just a moment, Dean. If you’ll wait here…” Then he steps away.

Dean sighs, alone again in the ever lightening hallway. If he’s going to get breakfast without running into anyone else, he shouldn’t stick around, and, really, he’s just hungry.

With that thought in mind, Dean spins on his heel and continues down the hall, not caring that he’s leaving the prince behind—he’s tired of trying not to step on any toes.

Dean’s in and out of the dining hall without incident, a plate piled high with food as he hurries back through the halls, and he makes it to his door once more without running into Castiel.

He lets out a soft breath of relief when the door closes behind him, leaning into it as he closes his eyes. He knows it's pathetic and a little sad to be hiding away in his room like this, but he just doesn't have to energy to deal with anyone giving him shit for still being here.

He wanders into the garden, once again finding a spot in the grass amongst the flowers to eat and cheer himself up. The birds sing and flowers bloom as the sun creeps its way into the sky, warming the cool morning air that nips at his nose.

"You're still here," he whispers to himself when his surroundings fail to do their job. "You're still in this, Dean. They didn't send you home." He takes a bite off the end of a sausage link and chews as his eyes roam the rosebushes before landing on the waterfall fountain, flowing into the tiny pond on the other side of the garden. "That's good, right?"

But he's just so tired, and he misses his family so bad he aches. And maybe, in a small, hidden place in his heart, he just doesn't want to be here anymore.

"So, Dean. We didn't see much of you this week, and there was no Tuesday interview, so we're going to try to get as much footage from you in this interview to make up for that."

Dean barely nods, staring into the middle ground as he sits on his stool, bright lights shining down on him in all directions. He clutches a sheet of paper in his hands, hearing it crinkle and not even caring what it says. He knows it's a script without even looking at it—they want him to be cheery and likable. Yeah, well, he's not cheery, and he doesn't feel particularly likable, either.

"Uh, good." Mick points to Nicholas, and a second later, the red light blinks on the front of the camera—he's being recorded.

Duma clears her throat and smiles at Dean—cool and professional as always. "It's been quite the week, Mr. Winchester. Tell me about Tuesday at lunch, what happened?"

Dean scowls at her—how the fuck should he know?—but she just points down at his cheat sheet.

He scans the notes labeled _Tuesday_, his mouth popping open when he reads the words, _Charlie Bradbury threw tomato soup at Meg Masters, who threw a cabbage roll in retaliation. The Crown Prince was not pleased (shouted for them to stop before storming from the room)._

"Uhh..." Dean looks from the sheet to the camera and back again, trying to come up with something to say, but he just keeps circling back to _what the fuck_? He's too tired for this, and honestly? He really doesn't care about this stupid interview. "Don't know. I wasn't there."

That's about how the rest of the interview goes. Mick gets more and more frustrated with every half-assed, honest answer Dean gives, and eventually, the interview is cut short.

"Just get out of here," Mick says, waving at the door. "Can't use any of this crap, anyway."

Dean doesn't wait to be told twice as he shoves up from his stool and pushes through the door, heading back to his room for his favorite part of the week.

He's ready for his damn phone call.

"Hello?"

Dean sighs at the sound of his mom's voice, all the tension and pent up emotion rushing out of him in an instant. "Hey, Mom."

"Oh, Dean, honey, it's good to hear from you. How are things? What's happening there? Oh crap, forget I asked—can't tell me anyway."

Dean chokes on a laugh, or maybe it's a sob, but tears well up In his eyes before spilling over. They stream down his cheeks as it all comes out. "Mom," he croaks, his voice thick with sadness, and the other side of the line goes quiet.

"Dean? What's going on?" There's that no-nonsense tone he knows so well. It's the same one he got as a child when someone would pick on him at school and he didn't want to tell her.

"It's all fucked up, Mom. I don't know what to do." Dean looks up at the guard standing inside his door, her only purpose is to make sure Dean doesn't spill the beans, and she watches him carefully.

"Did you get sent home? Is that it?"

"Mom, I can't—"

Someone knocks on the door, but Dean doesn't move, too distraught to do anything but rest his forehead in one hand as he hunches over on the couch, so the guard opens it, sticking her head out and having a brief conversation with whoever's there, before she steps out, too, leaving him alone.

Dean waits a minute, his nose dripping and eyes aching, before he whispers, "Something happened. Something bad."

She sucks in a sharp breath but waits for him to continue.

"Monday night, I had a bit too much to drink and—"

"Oh, Dean," his mom says, but Dean just shakes his head, even though she can't see him.

"Not like that. There's these people—they don't like me, and they want me out. I got drunk and I was carrying my pie back to the couch, and I don't even know how they managed it, but I tripped, and..." He breaks off on a sob. Everything just _hurts_ and it's all so, _so _terrible. He just wants to go _home_. "I practically tackled the prince on my way down, Ma. It looks _bad_."

"What?" He hears something clatter on the other end. "Dean? Dean, are you okay? Oh my God, baby, are you _okay_?"

"Yeah. Yeah, he pardoned me." His mom sighs on the other end of the line. "At least, I _think _he did. No one's telling me anything, but I'm still here, so..." He doesn't know what else to say—it's all just so _fucked_. "I'm just so confused, Mom," he whispers, his voice breaking as he falls back on the couch, his head back and eyes closed. "Why am I still here?"

The sun has long-since set and crickets chirp in the garden just beyond the windows. Dean's not sure what time it is, but he knows there's not a chance in hell he'll be falling asleep anytime soon.

He's wide awake, despite his exhaustion, tossing and turning in the sheets—too hot, then too cold—and he's getting sick of all this bad luck lately.

Sitting up, he punches his pillow before falling back with a huff.

Nope.

Dean tries again, and still, it's not comfortable enough.

He blames it on being cooped up inside for too long. He needs to burn off some energy, but at the same time, when daytime comes, he can barely drag himself out of bed. He can feel it—how he's sinking into himself, losing his happiness with every passing day—and he doesn't know how much longer he can do this.

Dean flips over to look at the door when it cracks open and a head of red hair pokes through, followed by another, darker head of hair.

Charlie and Hannah crawl into his bed without a word, snuggling under the duvet and hugging him close.

None of them speak, and Dean's getting really fucking tired of how his eyes well with tears at the smallest thing. He lets them comfort him, though, sniffling softly as they hold him tight.

It doesn't take him long to fall asleep after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on Twitter at [allmystars_i](https://twitter.com/allmystars_i)  
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Follow me on Instagram @allmystars_i


	15. WEEK TWO - Sunday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY APRIL FOOLS DAY! No joke, though, here's a new chapter! 
> 
> We're finally getting back to the good, and I'm so excited to write the next bunch of chapters! I love writing this Dean/Cas, so it's going to be FUN.
> 
> I still have a few weeks of classes, so I don't know how much will be written until all my assignments are done, and the DCBB is coming up, so we'll see how that goes. I'll still try to update at least once a week, but we'll see what happens!
> 
> Anyway, let me know what you think!

Dean's standing in front of the toilet, taking a piss, when he hears his bedroom door open and quick, purposeful steps coming down the hall.

"Fuck," he whispers, closing his eyes as a tiny fist thumps on the door. He doesn't have nearly enough energy for this right now.

"Mr. Winchester?" More knocking echoes through the room. "Mr. Winchester."

With a heavy sigh, Dean finishes, tucking himself back in his pants. "Yeah?" he calls out, knowing that if he doesn't answer, Susie will just bust down the door.

"I heard you were still here."

"S'that right?" He cringes, flushing the toilet and washing his hands, but taking extra time to do both.

"You know who I heard from?"

Shit. "Who's that?"

"Not _you_!" She thumps on the door some more. "Open up, boy!"

Dean lets his head fall back on a groan, his neck aching from sharing a bed with a couple of pillow-hogs the night before, and really, he just kind of feels like shit all around.

"Come on, Suse, yesterday was your day off—I didn't want to bother you." He swings the door open as he speaks, coming face to face with Susie's patented scowl, her eyebrows knitting together as she glares up at him. "I wouldn't even know where to find you."

"Yes, but _others_ do—you could've sent _others_."

Dean sighs, too tired for this fight, and sags into the doorframe. He looks to his feet, not bothering to argue because, yeah, he could've, but he wasn't really feeling up to talking to anyone but his mom. 

"Sorry," he mumbles, and he means it. The exhaustion in his voice—in the way he's barely holding himself up—must be clearer to see than he thinks, because her annoyance fades in an instant, replaced with concern.

"Bygones, my boy—let's start."

She leads him back into the bathroom, sitting him on the stool in front of the vanity before busying herself with her things. Dean doesn't bother watching as she unzips and rezips every compartment before huffing with frustration. She kicks it over, letting the hard plastic casing bang against the marble floors as she throws it open and rummaged through it once more. 

"How much are we doing?" Not that he cares—at this point, she could do anything and he wouldn't even bat an eye—but the way she's digging through that suitcase has him wondering.

"Just a shave for now—sit still."

She gets to work, doing more than just a shave, but Dean doesn't pay too much attention, and she respects his request for no more waxing. He hardly notices when it's time to leave—unlike last week, she's gentle, lulling him into a daze with her ministrations.

"Up you get, Mr. Winchester." Susie pats his shoulders, jerking Dean from his snooze. He opens his eyes to see her packing away her things.

"What?" He looks around, confused, and finds that, yeah, a few hours have passed, but it's still not time to leave. "That's it?"

Susie zips up her case, pulling out the handle so it rolls on its wheels. Then she turns to him with a smile. "You are very handsome—if he can't see, then he doesn't deserve you." Then she kisses him on the cheek, before patting his freshly cut hair. "I have a few unmarried children—" She cuts herself off, shaking her head. "Nope, nevermind—you are a _pain_, Mr. Winchester. I love you like a son, but I do _not _want you as my son."

Dean laughs at that, feeling a little bit lighter as he pushes to his feet. "I don't know," he tries, forcing a tired smile. "I'd make beautiful babies for you to dress up."

"Oh, hush." She swats at his arm before taking it in her hand as they make their way from his room. "Handsome until you open that mouth."

"Hmm," Dean hums, ignoring the chill of the marble floors on his bare feet as they wander through the halls, in no rush to make it to the viewing. "I'll miss you when I'm gone, you know?"

Susie doesn't respond—just squeezes his arm as they round a corner. He didn't bother to change before leaving, so he's still in the light grey sleep pants and a zip-up hoodie which Susie looked at with the utmost disdain, but he's comfy, so she let him keep it on for today.

Dean squints as the sun blazes through the windows lining the hallway that leads out to the grounds. Light filters through the endless glass, and it'd be quite beautiful, falling in a rainbow of colors from high in the vaulted ceiling, all along the endless hall, but Dean doesn't feel like anything in the world is beautiful right then. His head pounds with a steady beat, turning his stomach a little as he tries to take even breaths. His heart kicks in his chest, the closer they get, but he barely has the energy to feel it—he just doesn't care what they think anymore.

When they step into the room, no one's there yet—none of the suitors, anyway. The camera crew bustles around, setting up for the viewing and tossing cushions on the floor for everyone to sit on while setting up Castiel's chair off to the side.

Dean leads Susie to the farthest wall, away from Castiel and apart from everyone else.

"I've got a headache," he whispers to Susie as a lump rises in his throat. He pushes a hand through his hair, feeling his misery swell up again.

"Sit, boy," she tells him, and he does as he's told. Susie drags a chair over, placing it right behind him and taking a seat before bringing his head back to rest against the soft linen of her uniform. "Just relax—you owe them nothing right now. Feel better, Mr. Winchester."

He closes his eyes as she runs her fingers through his hair, stroking softly and massaging his temples as the crew works around them, not daring to ask Susie to move him for any reason.

The light touch in his hair does little for his headache, but it does soothe him into a peaceful daze. He's not sure how long they're there for, but after a while, people start filing in, shushed by Susie when they make too big of a racket.

"God, what's up her ass?" Dean hears Meg mutter when she comes in shrieking about her hair. Evidently, Susie hears it too.

"Wake my boy and I'll snap your neck," she growls, but Dean never hears anything more than Meg's gasp as he drifts back to sleep.

His mind floats in the space between consciousness for a long time, catching snippets of conversation, before they're distorted by dreamland, but his eyes slide open when a deep, gravelly voice speaks, closer than the others.

"Is he alright?"

Castiel's voice is rife with concern, and Dean lets out a soft, sleepy moan when the dim, yellow light hits his eyes. The edges of his vision blur and he feels a little better than he did when they arrived, but not by much.

"What do you think?" Susie snaps, startling Dean by the venom in her words—it _is_ the Crown Prince she's talking to, after all.

"I—I'm sorry," Castiel whispers, meek and ashamed, and it's so new to Dean that it strikes a chord in him.

"Alright," Mick says, projecting his voice over the chatter and Castiel wanders back to his chair on the other side of the room. "Just about ready. If everyone could get settled, that'd be great."

"Up you get, my boy. Your red-head has a spot for you." Susie nudges his shoulders, rousing him from his dazed state. Dean groans, scowling at the inconvenience, but he crawls over to Charlie nonetheless, arms weak and shaky—threatening to collapse under his weight.

"Hey, babe," Charlie whispers, offering him a small smile as Dean settles onto the cushion. His head still feels like it's filled with sludge, and the ache has moved behind his eyes, but he forces his face into a half-smile. "How're you feeling?"

"Terrible," Dean says, barely loud enough to be heard, but Charlie's eyes still soften, and she runs her fingers through the hair at the back of his head.

Then the countdown starts to roll. Three... two... one...

"Welcome back to the palace for our second week of the courting competition," Duma's voice says, booming through the room as she announces the highlights of the week, not leaving out a _single _thing.

Dean cringes at the mention of some _questionable actions leading to an investigation_, but they move on from it quickly, getting into other things. Like Charlie's food fight and a _particularly _interesting date with the prince, though it's not specified which one.

Dean doesn't pay too much attention for the first bit as they cover Monday. He looks so happy in that footage and seeing it now just really fucking hurts. There he is playing tennis and failing so bad at it he gets a black eye, but the smile on his face is so genuine. He envies that Dean, and all he wants is to go back to last Monday and get a do-over.

A fist clenches in his gut when _that _tape comes up, and yeah, he'll admit, it's really fucking damning—the angles are all weird, and for whatever reason, he gets so _insanely _dramatic when he's drunk, so it really does look like he just up and tackled the prince.

And it would be funny. You know, if he hadn't been caged in his room for a week with the threat of incarceration—or worse—hanging over his head.

He can feel every set of eyes in the room sneaking peeks at him as he lowers his own to the floor, staring at the ornate, cherrywood trim running along the base of the wall, then looking at his hands as he digs a fingernail into his palm, hard enough to leave a dent.

"It was spectacular, wasn't it?" Hannah says, leaning past Charlie with an under-eye mask on and curlers in her hair as her stylist buffs and clips her nails.

For a moment, Dean thinks she's referring to his 'attack,' but when he looks up at the screen, it's to see Charlie hurling a brimming bowl of rich, creamy tomato soup across the table where it splatters, not only on Meg, but Lily and Michael, too.

Dean doesn't laugh, but it loosens the fist in his gut just a little as the food fight continues. The cameras do an excellent job of capturing every reaction, especially Castiel's, who stops mid-bite, sitting stock-still, eyes wide, as bright red soup soaks into Meg's pristine white sundress.

Charlie cackles both on-screen and off, her head thrown back as TV Meg's face contorts with rage, and she digs her claws into a cabbage roll before hurling at Charlie, who ducks out of the way just in time. Off-screen, Meg's mouth is so pinched up, it looks like a dog's asshole.

It only gets more chaotic as Meg throws more and more food, some of it hitting Charlie, and some going wildly off course as Charlie continues to laugh. They all jump, though, when a booming, angry voice yells, "_Stop_!"

The dining room falls silent, and Dean's eyes go wide at the look on TV Castiel's face. He's never seen him so angry—so completely _unhappy_—as he is there. Red in the face, chest heaving, and head bent as he shakes. Then, without another word, he leaves the room, brushing past the camera crew and the guards without so much as a _see you later_.

Dean swallows the lump in his throat, keeping his eyes glued to the screen as the silence stretches on.

Horror swells up inside him, though, when the shot cuts to his Saturday interview—_yesterday's _interview. He's pale and thin—the harsh studio lights carving unnatural angles into his cheekbones and hollowing out his eyes as he glances down at his lap, before looking up into the camera and saying, "Don't know. I wasn't there."

It cuts to commercial.

The rest of the week is mostly uneventful. There's a shit ton of gossip about Dean, speculating on whether or not he'll be convicted or not, and it warms his heart to see that Charlie and Hannah are the only ones not convinced he'd be sent home.

He cringes the whole way through Lily's date with Castiel, though it really isn't anything special, and neither is Meg's, who had the Friday date. Castiel took Lily to the opera which, frankly, looks boring as hell, and he and Meg don't do more than go for a picnic by a lake. Dean stops paying attention when Meg won't shut her mouth long enough for Castiel to string two words together in reply.

"God, what a couple of insufferable—"

"Shh!" Hannah glares at Charlie, smacking her on the thigh with the back of her hand. "The ceremony."

Sure enough, when Dean glances back up, it's to a shot of his miserable face standing at the back of the platform, head bowed, hands folded in front of him—not even Susie's spectacular camera makeup can hide the sadness written in his face, or carved into the slope of his shoulders.

The fist in his gut clenches and twists, and all Dean can do is grit his teeth and deal with it as heat floods his cheeks.

The ceremony goes much like he remembers, though the camera focusses on him a lot more than he thought they would, despite the fact that he's not doing anything.

Until Castiel gets to the final rose.

Dean watches as TV Castiel takes up the flower in his hands, twirling it between gloved fingers as he looks down at the startling sapphire petals. He takes a deep breath, hesitates for a moment, then closes his eyes.

He sees the eye contact between himself and Castiel on the screen. The defiance in his own gaze that he hadn't realized was there, then the utter, gut-wrenching shock when Castiel says his name. He sees it on Duma's face too, and the other suitors, who'd mostly expected it to be _him_ that would go home.

There's so much pain and confusion in him even now, but something about seeing it back then, as his TV-self steps off the platform and moves to stand in front of Castiel, _refusing_ to meet his eyes as Castiel waits, before eventually giving in...

There's something about it that hits like a blow. A lump rises on his throat as every part of him flinches from the waves of misery that swell up again, and he doesn't know how much more he can take.

He's still just as confused as he was then.

Dean can hardly watch as tears burn his eyes, threatening to spill over as the show ends with him slamming his glass down and storming out. The room is silent as the credits roll, and he tries to hold on—to fight back against the breakdown—but he shakes with it and it's only a matter of time before he shatters under the weight of all this pain.

He needs to get out of here _now_, and before anyone can stop him, he pushes to his feet, ignoring Susie, and Charlie, and Hannah, and everyone else as he escapes into the hall.

Curious eyes follow him as his bare feet slap against the marble floors, but he doesn't bother brushing away the tears that draw their attention.

Dean can feel it clawing up his throat—the sobs fighting to tear into him—but he holds them back the best he can, one hand over his mouth as he clenches his teeth in a vain attempt to keep his heart from tearing its way out of him.

He bursts through his bedroom door, choking on a sob as he shoves both hands through his hair, so confused and miserable he doesn't know what to _do_ anymore. He just wants to go _home_.

Almost as soon as the door closes behind him, it opens again, and Dean closes his eyes.

"I really don't want to do this right now, Suse," he whispers, but she doesn't leave, and when he turns around, he finds that it's _not _Susie standing in his room. It's _Castiel_, looking determined, and afraid, and so goddamned _beautiful_ all at the same time.

"Please," Castiel says, holding up his hands when Dean opens his mouth to speak. "Please, let me explain myself to you." He steps closer as Dean's arms drop to his sides and more tears fall. "Let me help you understand."

Dean lets out a humorless laugh as he tips his head back, then drops his chin down as he shakes his head. "I'm so tired, Cas," he whispers, wiping at his cheeks as his bottom lip starts to quiver. "I'm just so _tired_."

"Please," Castiel breathes, reaching out a hand as if to touch him, before letting it fall away again. "I know I did wrong by you, and I'm not making excuses, but maybe it will bring you peace to understand why certain choices were made."

Dean studies him for a moment, his eyebrows knitting together at the imploring look in Castiel's eyes. He looks so vulnerable in that moment—like the smallest thing could bring this imposing, powerful man to his knees. Dean can give him this.

He nods, sniffling softly as he turns away, but he doesn't miss the way Castiel's shoulders slump with relief, or how he closes his eyes for the briefest moment before following Dean to the couch.

They sit on opposite ends, Dean looking into the empty fireplace as Castiel leans forward, elbows on his knees as he cups his hands in front of him.

Castiel takes a deep, calming breath, visibly pulling himself together in a way only a prince could. "I want to start by saying I never doubted you—not for a second."

Dean wipes his eyes, brushing away the last of his tears as he nods. He sniffles before wiping his nose on the sleeve of his hoodie, not giving two shits what Castiel thinks of him right then.

"There are rules, though—protocols that must be followed. Once my guard thought you guilty, it was out of my control until they finished their investigation."

"They weren't going to let me give a statement," Dean says, his voice stronger than he thought it'd be, and he finds that his anger isn't gone like he thought it was. The bitter taste of resentment sharpens his words and he narrows his eyes on the Crown Prince.

Castiel lets out a weary sigh as he leans back, looking so damn tired that Dean almost feels sorry for him. "I know. Don't worry, I was as upset as you were, which is why I had Benny come to you. I know you two get along."

"He said it wouldn't matter what I said—that they wouldn't look at it anyway." Dean raises an eyebrow as he waits for an explanation, and Castiel huffs out a tiny laugh.

"Well, he's not wrong. It _didn't_ matter, but only because I had already pardoned you. Of course, Benny didn't know that at the time." Castiel studies Dean's face for a moment, his deep blue eyes shining by the light streaming in through Dean's windows. He reaches into the breast pocket of his suit, pulling out a monogrammed handkerchief and handing it to Dean.

"Thank you," he whispers, staking the soft fabric and holding it between his fingers—gentle, so as not to wrinkle it.

"They wanted me to send you home."

When Dean looks up from the soft linen, he finds Castiel looking down at his hands—perfectly smooth with neat fingernails and a single, gleaming silver ring on his right hand.

"Yeah, I kind of got that." Dean forces a chuckle as he twists the cloth in his hands.

"It was decided, right up until I had that rose in my hands..." Castiel speaks like he's talking to himself—so quiet, Dean's not sure if he's meant to hear at all. It almost feels like an intrusion, but he listens closer, holding onto every word "They didn't really give me a choice—said it would shake the people's faith in me—but I just..." He shrugs, so boyish and unsure, and it reminds Dean just how young the Crown Prince is. Only twenty-one. "I couldn't do it—I couldn't send you home."

"Cas," Dean whispers, his heart clenching as emotion swells inside him, bringing tears to his eyes for a whole new reason.

Castiel visibly puts himself back together, straightening up and clearing his throat—remaking the prince out of pieces of Castiel. "Of all the people in the land, you would think _I _am the freest, but the life of a monarch is one bound by invisible chains, Dean. In every direction, there are people telling me what I _should _do—I _should _send you to prison, I _should _send you home_,_ I _should _pardon you—"

Dean's heart aches for the young monarch and he wants nothing more than to reach out and take his hands, but he holds back, not wanting to make Castiel any more uncomfortable than he already is.

"All I wanted to do was keep you here." Castiel swallows hard and closes his eye. He looks like he's steeling himself for something. Like he's preparing for some kind of blow that hasn't been dealt yet. "But if you want—" His voice catches, then breaks, and he clears his throat, blinking a few too many times to be normal as Dean holds his breath. "If you want to go home, I won't stop you."

"Cas—"

"I want you to be happy, Dean, and you're very clearly unhappy here."

The breath Dean had been holding shudders out of him as he closes his eyes. He thinks about—_really _thinks about it—but with this new information, and the reminder that even Castiel, the _Crown Prince_, makes mistakes, he's not sure he's dying to leave anymore.

He gets it, and just the fact that Castiel's leaving it up to him speaks volumes. Dean's once again reminded of the reason he's here in the first place. It's _this _man he wants. _This _man sitting in front of him, with the heart of gold and the sweetest temperament of anyone he's ever met. Dean's here for _Castiel_.

"I..." He trails off, not sure how to tell him what he wants, but knowing all he wants is to be told he's _wanted_. "I just..."

Castiel watches him with bated breath, eyes wide and searching Dean's as he waits. "What is it? Anything you want, and it's yours." Dean blinks, taken aback by the proclamation. "Do you want me to beg? To get down on my knees and beg for your forgiveness? I will do it, Dean. I will." He says it like a threat, and Dean can't help but take him up on it.

Dean nods, fighting back the smile that tries to force its way onto his face. He curls the handkerchief around one finger, running the pad of his thumb over the intricate _C_ as he waits to see what Castiel will do.

He eyes him for a moment before his lips part. "Alright," he says, giving Dean a curt nod as he slips to the floor, full of more grace and poise than Dean's ever seen in another person. "This must stay between us, though." He pauses, looking up at Dean for a moment before tacking on, "Please."

"Go on, then." Dean nods for him to continue. "Give it your best go, your highness."

He clears his throat, looking so lost, and Dean almost takes pity on him, but then Castiel's clear, ocean blue eyes meet his and he opens his mouth to speak.

"Dean," he says, voice low and a little shaky. He takes a deep, rattling breath. "I am so, _so_ sorry for my part in your suffering. I never wanted you to get wrapped in any of the..." He pauses, searching for the word, before just spitting it out in a fervent whisper. "The _bullshit_...of the upper classes. I never wanted—"

To Dean's utter astonishment, tears shine in the prince's eyes but he blinks them away as fast as they well. The jokey tone leaves them and Dean's heart aches once more for the young prince, but when he opens his mouth to ask Castiel to stop, he's doesn't get any further than that.

"Dean, I never wanted anyone to get hurt, but I can't—" He shakes his head, then slips his hands over Dean's, which sit folded in his lap.

Dean just barely manages to stop himself from flinching. It's so rare for the prince to initiate contact, considering no one's allowed to touch him first, that the warmth of his skin sends ripples of awareness through him.

"I can't stop it, and I'm so _sorry_ that I can't do better, but I'll try—by God, I swear I'll try. So, please... _please_, would you stay? Please stay?"

He'd already decided he would, but the way Castiel asks—with so much earnest feeling in every syllable—has tears welling in Dean's eyes and spilling down his cheeks as he sits there, astonished by the fear he sees in his prince.

Slowly—slow enough to give Castiel time to pull away—he turns his hands over, watching as Castiel's fingers slip over his own. Castiel doesn't pull back, so Dean closes his hands, feeling the solid warmth of strong, working hands in his own.

It feels nice—so nice and good and _right_—to hold his hands. Dean lets out a soft sigh, soaking in the moment as he comes to terms with the fact that he'd do just about anything to feel these hands in his for the rest of his life.

"Okay," he whispers, giving a small nod as he looks into Castiel's eyes. "Okay, Cas; I'll stay."

All the breath seems to rush from Castiel's lungs in an instant as relief washes over his features and he closes his eyes, swallowing hard. "Thank you," he whispers, squeezing Dean's hands before letting his own fall away. "I _promise_ you, Dean.I promise I'll do all that's in my power to keep you from harm."

Castiel pushes himself up from the floor, dusting off his knees as he straightens up, morphing back into the untouchable monarch Dean's known up to this point.

"Will I see you at breakfast tomorrow?" Castiel asks, raising an eyebrow as Dean stands too, clutching the handkerchief in both hands. They stand close—only a few inches apart—and Dean can smell the clean, honey-sunshine scent of his skin as it soaks into his senses, intoxicating in its loveliness.

"You might."

"I hope so." Castiel gives him one last, warm smile before stepping away. He bows his head, folding his hands in front of him in the most demure show of politeness he can manage with that pleased little grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. "Until tomorrow." He turns away, shoes sinking into the carpet, and Dean follows him to the door.

"Until tomorrow," he whispers, holding tight to the edge of the door as Castiel slips through.

Then he's gone and Dean's left standing there smiling like an idiot at the empty hallway, the prince's handkerchief still twisted around his fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	16. WEEK THREE - Monday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, y'all! I'm going to try to update this story once a week, probably on Wednesdays. I've got a few more things on the go right now, including my DCBB fic, so this might take a backseat.
> 
> So, once a week. On Wednesdays. We'll see if I can stick to that.
> 
> This chapter is pretty long, so hopefully, that makes up for only posting once a week!
> 
> Let me know what you think!

Dean wakes up more refreshed than he's been in a week. The sun shining through his windows doesn't seer his retinas anymore, and the pounding in his head is all but gone.

Dean whistles as he showers, then hums as he waits for Susie to show up.

"What's gotten into you, boy?" she asks him a few times over the hour or so that she works, but he just shrugs, one side of his mouth twitching up in a tiny grin.

He's dressed in a suit Susie calls _burnt orange._ He calls it _dirty pumpkin_ and gets a slap across the chest for it.

"Pretty until you open that mouth," Susie murmurs under her breath as she knots his shoes and fixes his socks. No tie today—Dean's good with that. "Good thing you're so damn cute."

"You got that right." He shoots her a wink and ruffles up his hair before running from the room as she shouts for him to come. Before he leaves, though, he tucks Castiel's monogrammed handkerchief deep inside his pants pocket.

Dean's leather shoes click on the marble floors, echoing in his ears along with the rolling carts heading in every direction. Dean's always wondered where everyone else eats since he never sees the rest of Castiel's family. Or much of anyone for that matter.

There's got to be more to the palace than what he sees. Actually, he _knows _there is—service halls, staff quarters, and the sections marked _No Admittance_—and he's starting to think maybe he should take a look around. You know, for something to do in this goddamn boring-ass place.

He's not paying attention, fixing his cuffs and straightening his jacket as he steps into the dining hall, and immediately regrets it when he hears a high-pitched, bell-like laugh from the other side of the room. He looks up, heart skipping, and finds he's alone with Meg and Michael.

Fuck, he'd been hoping to get here first—maybe get a few moments of peace.

Dean finds a place at the table, keeping his head down and piling his plate with food like it's any normal day while trying his best to ignore Meg and Michael as they murmur under their breath.

"Seriously? _Who _would pick that suit?"

Michael huffs a laugh. "God-awful, isn't it?"

Dean picks at his food, refusing to look up, but a lump forms in his throat and he feels about an inch tall—like a bug under a microscope just there to be picked apart.

"Who even did his hair? Looks like—"

"Dean."

Dean jumps, lifting his gaze to the new voice in the room. Castiel's delighted blue eyes meet his as he rounds the table, taking a seat to Dean's left as Meg's mouth snaps shut.

"Morning, Cas," Dean drawls as his stomach flips, butterflies fluttering like mad. Sweet, sugary warmth floods him as he cocks his head to one side, biting his bottom lip and trying not to smile too wide.

"I'm glad you decided to join me." Castiel's smile says as much as a servant places a plate of eggs benedict in front of him.

Dean quirks an eyebrow, his bottom lip sliding from between his teeth as he smirks. "Is that why you're here so early?"

A subtle blush works its way into Castiel's cheeks, but to his credit, he doesn't look away, keeping steady eye-contact as he answers. "It might be," he whispers, the flush darkening as a thrill dances up Dean's spine and shock ripples through him as his eyebrows shoot up.

He leans closer, lowering his voice to a mere whisper. "Are you, Crown Prince Castiel Charles James Novak, flirting with _me_?"

With eyes only for Dean, Castiel doesn't notice the sour looks shot at him from across the table, or the greetings directed his way as suitors file in. 

"I might be," he whispers again, and the breath catches in Dean's lungs as a fire lights in his stomach, turning him to mush.

Something like adoration lingers in Castiel's eyes, but it gives Dean pause.

How...? How could he possibly feel like that for _Dean_? Sure, Dean's had feelings for far longer, but he's been pining after the prince since the day Castiel was born.

With a jolt, he pulls back, throwing up walls and guarding himself against the bitter, crushing pain he knows he'll feel if he lets too much hope in. He knows Castiel has the best intentions, but they're only just starting week three, and something about Dean's feelings are just _too_ _damn much_ at this point.

He blinks a few times, scowling as he looks down at his plate. Castiel clears his throat beside him, and out of the corner of his eye, he watches him bow his head and start picking at his food.

"How was your night, your highness?" April asks from across the table. She flips her hair over her shoulder and smiles, twirling her fork between her fingers.

Castiel's head pops up, eyes wider than normal as he comes back to himself. "Pardon? Oh, it was fine." That's all he says, using deft, practiced table manners to slice up his eggs and slide a bite between his lips, effectively ending the conversation.

"Who's the cutie in Dean Winchester's clothes?" Charlie saunters up to him in a deep green sundress and her bright red hair up in a braided bun. She's practically glowing with happiness; her cheeks flushed and eyes bright.

"Who's the fox in a sundress?" Dean looks her up and down in the most exaggerated, obvious way he can, pulling a bubbly laugh from her glossy lips.

"That would be _me_, darling," Hannah says, gliding in moments later with a soft smirk on her lips and a glimmer in her forget-me-not eyes. She lowers herself into a chair as a camera settles over her shoulder, zooming in on Dean's face.

"Glad to see you so cheery, huh?" Charlie slaps his shoulder, snagging a croissant from a tray and sinking her teeth into it.

Dean just shoots her a wink.

Castiel clears his throat, drawing Dean's attention back to him as he wipes the corners of his mouth with a pristine napkin. The handkerchief in the breast pocket of Castiel's sharp burgundy suit catches Dean's eye, reminding him of the one in his own pocket.

"How is the food?" Castiel asks, leaning closer and speaking only to Dean. Something about the act brings a smile to Dean's face, but he's not sure what to make of it. Why so much attention on _him_ of all people? And is it just for strategy? Castiel was quite clear that, even in this, he doesn't have full control, so is it that?

He shoves the thought back. "Fantastic as ever. Did you make it yourself?" Dean flushes as soon as the words leave his mouth. God, what a stupid question—who even asks that?

"You would be surprised by the array of skills I possess in the kitchen, Mr. Winchester." Castiel smiles around his water, wrapping delicate fingers around the glass as his eyes watch Dean.

It'd be impossible to decipher the teasing raise of his eyebrow, or the sweet flush in his cheeks just by looking at him, but the playful lilt in his tone gives him away and Dean delights in it.

"Perhaps you could show me sometime?" Dean spears an egg with his fork but doesn't bring it to his lips. Let's be real—he'd be wearing it in a second if he tried.

A camera zeros in on them but Dean really couldn't care less as bubbly joy swells in his stomach. Jo waves for Castiel's attention across the table, and Meg pulls her hand back every few seconds, restraining herself from getting Castiel's attention in the only way she knows how, but Castiel just watches him, oblivious to all of it.

"Perhaps," Castiel muses, setting his cutlery aside. "But not today."

Dean's shoulders sag as disappointment filters in. He hadn't really been expecting an offer of more time together, but it would've been nice.

"What are your plans for the rest of the day?" Castiel asks after a moment, ignoring the obnoxious laughter beside him.

"Hmm," Dean hums, tapping a finger on his lips as he leans to the side, allowing the staff to clear away some of his mess. "I think I might be in the mood for a little mischief, what do you say? Liven things up a bit?"

A bark of laughter bursts from Castiel, startling everyone in the room and drawing their attention as he shakes his head, face flushed and filled with joy at Dean's proposition. "That sounds... interesting, yes."

"And you?" Dean asks once the attention as turned back to mumbled conversations. "What do you have on that to-do list of yours?"

"A to-do list? Is that what you think I have?" Castiel's eyes follow the servant's movements as he takes his plate away, mumbling a quiet _thank you_ before turning back to Dean.

"Don't you? Meetings and talks and all the photoshoots you could dream of?" Dean snags Charlie's mimosa when she's not looking, downing it in one go before getting a smack upside the head for his efforts.

"Dick," she snaps, scowling at him as he grins and rubs his head.

"Love you too."

"Something like that," Castiel says, drawing Dean's attention back for the hundredth time. "I do have a board meeting, and even a few discussions about photoshoots, if you must know. There might also be a surprise in the works."

"Ooh, _really_? Immortalizing your charming scowl? Or maybe—"

"My charming scowl?" There it is, gracing the prince's face as confusion muddles the light in his eyes. There might even be a little bit of offense mixed in too. "Do I... do I really _scowl_ that much?" Castiel whispers, leaning close and looking more self-conscious than Dean's ever seen him, and now he just feels like a dick.

"I didn't mean—" But he's cut off as Castiel's attention is drawn to the guard at his shoulder.

"It's time to go, your highness. The governer is here."

"Thank you, I'll be just a moment." The guard nods, stepping away and speaking into his ear-piece as Castiel turns back to him with something a bit more guarded in his eyes. "Try not to get into too much mischief and I will try not to scowl so much." He rises from his chair, as does the rest of the table. "Even if it is what we both do best." Then Castiel turns to the rest of the table and, with the most regal and decidedly _un-_scowl-like smile, he exits, his guards trailing along behind him.

"So, where're we headed?" Dean asks, looking at Charlie when Castiel's officially out of the room.

"Hannah and I are going to the barracks if you want to come." She downs the last of her water before wiping her mouth with a napkin. "Dorothy will be there, and there's this cute guard that's got his eyes on Hannah, even if she refuses to see it."

Dean forces out a soft chuckle, but inside, his stomach rolls. He can almost understand Charlie's situation, even if he doesn't completely agree with it, but the others? They're supposed to be here for _Castiel _so the fact that some are looking elsewhere while _still _here, makes him sick.

"I'm gonna stick around inside I think," Dean says, wiping his fingers on a napkin before pushing back from his chair. "Maybe check the place out a bit."

"Oh," Charlie says, frowning but not bothering to argue. "Okay, then. We'll uh... we’ll see you later."

Then she and Hannah are gone, hurrying out of the dining hall and around the corner before any cameras can chase after them.

He leaves shortly after, but he's not as lucky as Charlie and Hannah in escaping the cameramen. He's got one following behind him, a camera on his shoulder with the red light blinking.

Dean wanders deeper into the palace, passing through archways into hallways he's never seen before. The decor changes the farther he goes—the light, airy hallways of polished white and shiny gold accents morphs into deep, rich reds and dark wood when Dean steps into a sitting room. There's more money in every inch than Dean's seen in all his life. From the vaulted ceilings, ribbed with exposed beams and a chandelier that shoots light off in every direction.

"Holy shit," he whispers, spinning in place in the middle of a circle of chairs. With the curtains pulled back, the late morning sunshine streams in, blinding him for a moment before he turns away, too distracted by the portrait above the fireplace.

A father, a mother, and six children, all blue-eyed, but with different shades of neatly styled hair. There's a baby in the mother's arms, swaddled in a blanket, and four young children clinging to the king and queen. The last child stands beside the king, hair neat and unsmiling, but so life-like it feels like he's staring right through Dean. That perfect scowl—his prince.

Dean doesn't even realize he's smiling until he catches sight of a camera on his right. He jumps, giving the cameraman a scowl of his own before turning away. What do they want with him anyway? They never followed him this much before.

For a moment, Dean's heart clenches at the thought that they don't trust him, but he can't believe that. He can't think so low of the royal family—especially not Castiel after he pardoned him; there's no way he'd allow Dean to still be here if he doesn't trust him.

He slows to a stroll in the next hallway. This one’s darker, with deep blue curtains drawn over high windows, blocking out the sunlight that peeks through the edges. Dean runs his fingers over the wallpaper, feeling the smooth finish before gliding his hands over the decorative tables set at intervals along the hall.

A vase of blue roses rests on the polished, cherrywood surface, and portraits of those long gone sit above each one, their names engraved on a plaque below.

Dean wanders closer to a dark-haired man, his blue eyes giving him away as a member of the Novak family even before Dean spots the big ol’ crown resting over his brow. He looks older than Cas, but not by much. Late twenties, maybe? Early thirties?

Dean reads the plaque, bending close to see it better in the low light. _King Louis Raphael Charles Novak VI, 1243-1287._

“Hm,” Dean hums, straightening up and folding his hands behind his back. So if all the kings are here, does that mean…

No, Castiel wouldn’t be here yet—he’s only a prince—but Dean hurries down the hall anyway, passing kings and queens long past, dressed so elegantly, all in deep blue, and with the same diamond and sapphire encrusted crown.

The hallway seems to stretch on forever, but when he gets to the last portrait, he only finds Castiel’s grandmother—the most recently deceased ruler of the Novak line.

_Queen Estelle Maurine Renée Novak II, 1798-1856._

She looks down on Dean with a scowl, her light brown hair done up in a sleek chignon, emphasizing the angles of her face and making her look just as much like the severe ruler she was rumored to be. Back straight and hands folded in front of her, Dean can see the resemblance to his prince in every brushstroke.

He wonders if Castiel ever thinks about it—about the way those before him led the kingdom. Dean’s sure he does, and now that he thinks about it, he wonders how Castiel can think of anything else. How do you run a country? And at such a young age, especially after the death of a parent? That’s how it works, isn’t it? The old king or queen dies, and the heir takes over? Meaning Castiel’s _father_ will die and he’ll inherit the throne.

Dean can’t even imagine it—the kind of stress and grief he’d feel at losing a parent and immediately having to run a kingdom—and the reason behind the strain Dean's noticed in Castiel is made all too clear. His heart aches for his prince and he seems far more human now—for less indestructible.

Dean jumps when the cameraman’s radio crackles, reminding him he’s not alone. He looks back at the fumbling man with the big block of metal on his shoulder. It’s not Nicholas, but some guy Dean’s never been introduced to. He’s young—younger than Dean—and scrawny as anything, with shaggy blond hair and a look like he’s never seen so much money in his life. He kind of reminds Dean of himself.

“Is this your first job?” Dean asks the guy, who looks up at him with startled, watery blue eyes. Dean smiles at him, kind and reassuring, and the boy stutters, stumbling over his words as he looks between the camera on his shoulder and Dean.

A blush rises in his cheeks as he answers. “Y-yeah, it’s my first. My first job, yeah.”

Dean nods, turning away from the blinking red light. “I never had a job before this. Well, not really—I worked, but didn’t make near enough money to consider it an actual job.” They make their way to the end of the hall, in no hurry to be anywhere. “What’s your name?”

“Alfie, sir.”

Dean scoffs at that, smirking over his shoulder as he takes a right into a much wider and brighter hallway. “No need to call me sir. Dean’s fine.”

Doors and winding stairwells lead off in every direction, and Dean picks one at random that lets him into some kind of theatre room. Rows of chairs lead down to a stage on the lowest level, and Dean would bet his last dime that one of those staircases outside leads to the balcony levels up top.

“Ever seen a place quite like this?” Dean asks, his voice echoing as he turns in a circle, head tipped back as warm, dimmed lights wash over him. Awe sweeps through him, catching in his stomach and sending butterflies fluttering like mad.

“There ain’t no other place like this, sir—_Dean_.” Alfie flushes. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean says, waving him off as he heads for the opposite door. The carpet beneath his feet keeps his steps silent, and the door swings in on soundless hinges. “How’d you get into this thing anyway? The whole filming business?”

He’s not sure if Alfie’s supposed to be talking to him, but he doesn’t hesitate with his answer, so it must be okay, right?

“I applied through the academy—I take film classes and I guess the prince thought it’d be a good idea to give us a shot.” He shrugs, but the grin on his slim, boyish face gives away his delight.

Dean’s heart melts, as it always seems to do, with the reminder of just how thoughtful Castiel is. His heart beats a little faster, and something deep inside him aches the tiniest bit—he knows Castiel has things to attend to, but _God_, does he want to be with him.

“Great man, isn’t he?” Alfie says with an inflection in his tone like he knows just what Dean is thinking. Dean glances back at him as they step into the hallway and sure enough, there’s a tiny grin on his lips.

“That he is, Alfie. That he is.” The sound of heels clicking on marble catches his attention just as Kelly and Jo round the corner only a few paces away. They grin when they spot him, hurrying towards him as Dean comes to a stop.

“Dean!” Kelly says, a grin spreading her cheeks as she tosses her hair over her shoulder. “What are you doing here?”

“Uh, well, Alfie and I—”

“Alfie?” Jo says, raising an eyebrow like she’s caught Dean with his hand in the cookie jar.

He scowls. “Yeah, Alfie,” and points over his shoulder at the cameraman, who gives a tiny, awkward wave before hiding back behind his camera. “We were trying to find the kitchens.” Sure, let’s go with that.

“Oh!” Kelly brightens, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she flips her hair back again. “We’re not too far, actually.” She spins on her heel, leading them into a hallway and down a winding staircase. “I got lost last week and ended up in there. What're you going for?”

Dean pulls his shoulders in as he steps into the stairwell behind Jo, turning sideways to fit through the narrow space as the stone walls scrape against his sides. “Just something to do. Is there another way down there?” he asks, feeling a stab of panic in such a tight space.

“Sure there is—this is the staff entrance, but I haven’t got a clue where the other one is.” Kelly rounds the corner, and Dean speeds up to keep Jo’s blond locks in sight.

“You good back there?” Dean calls to Alfie and gets a grunt in return. With every step down into the darkness, Dean’s lungs seize up a little more.

He never would’ve pegged himself for claustrophobic, but holy fuck, it feels like the walls are closing in, and the air is getting thinner, and—

He stumbles out into a brightly lit kitchen, bustling with staff and filled with the delightful scent of soups, stews, roasts, and various other things.

Alfie steps out behind them, that red light still blinking as he sweeps the camera from side to side, taking it all in alongside Dean.

“So this is where the magic happens, huh?” Jo says, grinning at Dean as she takes another step closer to the worktops and stoves. “Bet this is like heaven for you.”

“Oh, come on, Jo! Don’t be _mean_,” Kelly says, sidling up next to Dean. He jumps when fingers graze his arm, lingering longer than necessary, and Dean’s eyes snap to Kelly, who bites her bottom lip and eyes him up and down.

Dean’s stomach turns, clenching with unease at the suggestive way she sways toward him. He looks around—does no one else see this? She’s _literally _feeling him up in the middle of the kitchen—but no one's paying attention.

Dean forces out a laugh and steps away, his skin crawling just a little. Did that really just happen? No, he’s probably just reading too much into it. There’s no way she’s into him, and there’s _definitely _no way she’d do that to Castiel. Kelly’s a nice girl—sweet. A little ditzy, but a nice girl all the same.

The moment passes and when Dean blinks again, the girls have moved away. Dean shakes himself out of it and grins at the first man to look up.

“Hi,” Dean says, stepping closer to the table and meeting the cornflower blue eyes. They almost remind him of Castiel’s but the shape of them is wrong—too wide, and his eyebrows have faded to a dull grey to match the hair tucked under his chef’s hat. “Would you mind if we watch?”

“Sure,” the man says, wiping his hands on his apron. “You can even help if you want.”

“Really?” Excitement bubbles up inside him as more and more of the kitchen staff stop what they’re doing.

“It's your food; you might as well cook it. Here,” he says, showing Dean to the sink. “Wash your hands, grab an apron, and I’ll have you start the pie.” He points to the aprons hanging in the back corner. “I’m Frank, by the way. Shout if you need anything.”

Dean’s grin widens as he does what he’s told, barely noticing Alfie as he hovers close to Dean’s side.

The thick scent of garlic and tomato hangs heavy in the steamy air as Dean weaves through apron-clad cooks who smile at him as he passes. Despite the noise of the kitchen, it’s filled with more laughter and chatter than anywhere else in the palace. Jokes are shouted across worktops, and occasionally, they’ll break out into song—out of tune and more than a little ridiculous—but Dean soaks it all in as he waits for Jo and Kelly to finish up with washing their hands.

Kelly gets back first, her hair tied back and an apron tied around her waist, and Dean looks down at himself.

“Hold on a sec, Kelly. I forgot an apron—”

“Dean, look out!”

Before Dean even registers the warning, his mouth, eyes, and nose are filled with flour and he stumbles back, crashing into the table and sending pots, pans, and mixing bowls clattering to the floor.

The kitchen falls silent as the dust settles, Dean’s hacking coughs as he chokes on the flour the only sound.

“Oh my God, Dean, I’m so sorry,” Jo whispers, her hands coming up to cover her face as she fights back a laugh. He doesn’t even see Kelly leave, but then Jo’s gone to, making a break for it and leaving him alone, covered head to toe in flour.

He blinks the dust from his eyes and tries his best to brush off the front of his suit, but it’s no use. A laugh bubbles up in his throat, mingling with the stifled laughter of the kitchen staff as he shrugs. “Just call me Dusty the Snowman, I guess.”

Someone snorts, and Dean shakes his head as the rest of them lose it. They roar with laughter as Dean shakes the flour from his hair—well, tries to anyway, but he’ll definitely be needing a shower.

“Anyone have a broom?” He looks around at the red-faced staff, but they just shoo him away. “Seriously, I can clean it up. You don’t need to—”

“Get out of here. Lunch is almost ready, and you need to change,” Frank says, popping out from between the tables with a broom in hand. “That Susie will kick your ass when she sees you.”

Horror seeps into Dean’s bones. Fuck, she’ll kill him. “Right—gotta go!” He hurries from the kitchen, slipping and sliding before he gets to the door, following the guards sent to lead him back. He’s more than a little relieved when they lead him through a different set of doors, up a wide staircase, and into the brightly lit, rainbow hallway that he knows leads to the viewing room.

Dean's sure there’s a trail of dusty footprints behind him, but there’s not much he can do about it except walk as stiffly as possible to keep from shaking the flour loose.

“So, how’s your day going?” Dean asks the guard on his right, smiling when his shaded eyes turn on him. He doesn’t so much as twitch for a moment, but when Dean doesn’t look away, the man shakes his head, a small grin pulling at his lips.

A burst of laughter carries down the hall and Dean whips his head around so fast his neck cracks, but the sight of Castiel with his head thrown back, laughing like he hasn’t got a care in the world, is worth it.

Dean grins, trying in vain to wipe the flour off his cheeks as they meet in the middle, Castiel still grinning as his eyes shine in a way his late grandmother's hadn’t.

“You weren’t kidding about the mischief, I see?” Castiel lifts a hand, dragging his thumb over Dean’s cheek, almost without a thought. He stands so close—close enough that Dean feels the heat of his breath on his face and smells the honey and sunshine on Castiel's skin.

“Not my fault,” he murmurs, distracted by the light touch as butterflies swarm in his stomach. “Jo tripped and tossed it on me.”

Castiel’s hand moves into Dean’s hair, sifting through the soft strands as Dean’s breath catches and his heart thunders in his chest. He doesn’t dare to move even an inch—not with the guards standing so close and Alfie hanging around somewhere behind him.

Those haunting blue eyes study Dean’s face, almost like he’s cataloging every inch—lips parted and hand steady as he takes Dean in. Dean’s surprised by how comfortable he feels under the scrutiny—shocked he’s not squirming like he would with anyone else—but he just waits for Castiel to speak and watches the sunlight hit the side of his face.

But Castiel jerks his hand away, taking a quick step back when Alfie’s radio beeps, and breaking eye-contact to look at the young cameraman. “The sound should be turned off on that, Alfie.”

“Y-yes, your highness. My apologies.”

Castiel nods before looking back at Dean, the hard set of his jaw softening with a playful smile. “Maybe I should tell Susie, hm?” His grin widens as he arches an eyebrow. “Let her know you will need another suit?”

Dean’s heart drops, but he doesn’t get a chance to answer as the woman in question rounds the corner behind Castiel.

“That damn boy, I swear—_Dean_!”

Dean cringes, closing his eyes and shrinking into himself as Castiel steps out of her way, a grin still playing on his lips.

“Why is it always you, huh? _Why?_ You cause me more damn stress than his prissy highness ever did, you know?” She stabs a finger at Castiel, who flusters with the accusation, but snaps his mouth shut almost as soon as he opens it to argue. Dean would laugh, too, but Susie smacks him upside the head before he can.

“Hey! It’s not even my fault!” He scowls at her and looks to Castiel for help, but she’s already dragging him away.

“I will see you for lunch, Dean,” Castiel says, laughter in his voice as he continues on his way.

“Come on, boy. You’re a _mess_.” He sulks along behind her, dragging his feet as she mumbles under her breath. “_Cute_ _boy_, they said. Well-mannered and quiet, _sure_. Never said he gets into so much _trouble_.”

Dean makes it to dessert without incident, sitting in the corner of one of the couches in the sitting room, a slice of apple pie _not _made by him in his hand. He's dressed in a simple black suit, still no tie, and pleased as punch to be there.

“She’s showing me how to throw knives,” Charlie whispers, grinning like a fool from her seat beside Dean. “Thursday, she’s going to take me out back—”

“And no one will ever find the body?” Dean mumbles around his fork, but Charlie hears and shoots him a blistering glare.

“Shut your mouth, _Dusty_.” Dean rolls his eyes but doesn’t respond. Apparently, the staff is chatty, and somehow, every single one of the soldiers has heard of _Dusty the Snowman_, meaning Charlie and Hannah have too. “_Anyway_, she’s going to take me for a walk in the forest after dinner and we’ll practice—isn’t that cute?”

“Sure is,” Dean mumbles, but he’s not paying attention anymore, his eyes draws to the front of the room as Castiel steps inside with two guards at his back, and his hands steepled in front of him.

“May I have your attention, please?” Castiel says, his voice low, but it carries through the room with inherent authority, grabbing the attention of every person and drawing it to him. “Excellent.” He smiles, his eyes falling to Dean’s, and suddenly, Dean remembers the promise of a surprise made at breakfast that morning.

He sits up in his chair, setting his plate aside and giving Castiel his full attention as anticipation thrums in his veins.

“Come Thursday, we will be embarking on our first group date.” Murmurs fill the air and Castiel waits for them to quiet before he continues. “The orchards are in prime condition for harvest, so we will be going apple picking before returning to the palace kitchens to make ourselves dessert.”

Dean doesn’t have words for the excitement that swells up inside him. It bubbles over into trembling hands and an aching grin.He doesn’t even hear Charlie’s bitching—she’ll have to cancel her date with Dorothy—or Meg and April’s whining about doing ‘servant’s work.’

He’s never been apple picking before, but getting a chance to make pies, and pastries, and crumbles, and fritters with _Castiel_?

It sounds like heaven, and when Dean looks back at him, he finds Castiel grinning like he’s doing all of this just for Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	17. WEEK THREE - Tuesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I wrote this last Wednesday and haven't read it since, but I remember it being my favourite so far, so there's that. I'm done with assignments, so MORE WRITING TIME! YAY!
> 
> Still keeping with the once a week posting schedule because it'll be about the only consistent thing I do, so sorry or you're welcome, depending on how you feel about it.
> 
> Let me know what you think!

“Can you tell us a little bit about your whereabouts last week?”

Dean sucks in a steady breath, more than a little tired of this line of questioning. He’s sure whatever’s on the sheet in Mick’s hand isn't authorized, just based on the fact that it’s _Mick_ reading them out.

“Yeah, I spent most of the week in my room. Wasn’t feeling well.” He doesn’t smile—doesn’t even twitch as he stares Mick down.

Mick waits for more, and when it’s clear Dean’s not going to give him anything, his eyes slide back to his page as his foot starts to tap against the cobbled stones.

“Okay…” His eyes flick across the lines as he mouths the words. “Would you mind speaking about the events of last Monday? What was that about?”

“A misunderstanding. It’s been dealt with and I’d rather not say anything more on it.” Dean bounces his knee, his toes tapping against the bottom rung of the stool. He’s damn hungry and they’re cutting into his lunch break.

It’s probably one of the last summer-warm days of the year and the crisp Amarellino breeze ruffles his hair and carries the scent of charbroiled burgers and fresh hotdogs through the air.

His stomach rumbles again and the hollow pit growls for _something_ as his frustration grows with every bullshit question they throw at him.

“And what about Friday? It was pretty clear you were upset. What about?” Mick eyes him closely, squinting with a little bit of a warning in his eyes, but Dean just grins.

“Told you—I was sick last week.” He shrugs, pulling at his jacket and shifting on his stool as he makes a show of looking around for someone to save him. “Can we get to the actual interview now? You know, the one where you ask me about this week?”

Mick sputters, readjusting his headset and holding tight to his questions. “You know you’re being recorded, right?” Mick grates, his eyes boring into Dean’s, but he just shrugs again.

“You edit this thing—”

“I’ll take that, thank you, Mick.” Duma snatches the pages from Mick’s hands, reading through them quickly before ripping it up. “That footage is inadmissible, and you _will _follow up with me before it airs, understood?”

Mick’s upper lip twitches in a snarl, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he gets off the stool and marches off around the fountain, speaking into his headset in a rushed whisper. Dean fights back a smirk, but he's sure he doesn't do as well as he'd hoped when he catches Nicholas grinning from behind the camera.

“Alright…” Duma lowers herself onto the stool with a sigh before shooting Dean a professional smile. “Sorry about that.” She flips through her clipboard before crossing one deep purple, pantsuited leg over the other. “What do you think about the excursion planned for Thursday?”

Dean shakes his head, blinking a few times as he tries to forget the hunger rolling in his stomach and refocus on the interview. The quicker he gets this over with, the faster he'll be able to snatch up a burger before they're gone. The mention of Thursday’s date helps though, bringing a smile to his face in an instant.

“What do I think of Thursday’s group date?” He smiles, knowing he got it right this time. “I don’t think I’ve ever been more excited for anything, like, _ever_.”

Dean stands off to one side, a burger in hand as he watches the chaos of April, Meg, Michael, Sarah, and Jo fight for Castiel’s waning attention. He smiles around the bun bulging his cheeks, trying not to choke on a laugh as Castiel jumps, startled by the high-pitched cackle that comes from April’s bright red lips.

Dean sighs, shaking his head at the ridiculousness of it all, but the sun blazes down on him, making the thick wool suit cling to his skin as sweat drips down his spine.

His stomach sours the longer he’s in the heat, and he thinks it’s just about time to head inside.

Dean turns his back on the catastrophe by the flowerbeds and heads inside, taking his burger with him and snatching up a bottle of water on his way by.

The path up to the entrance is packed with the camera crew, still doing interviews and whatever else it is they do, but none of them pay attention to him as he pushes through the doors and disappears into the empty hallways.

The heat of the grounds dissipates as soon as he's through the doors, and Dean takes his time wandering the halls, head back and eyes scanning the frescos painted into the domed ceilings. The depictions of mass gatherings at the feet of ancient kings, and holy prayer to the Gods—all tainted up there among angels and men.

Dean’s careful not to drip sauce on the floors as he eats, wiping his mouth, not on his sleeve, but his napkin. You know, like a grownup. He finds himself about halfway up the grand staircase in the entryway, watching the sun filter through the stained-glass windows above the double doors.

A rainbow of color dances over the marble floors—splashes of red, orange, green, and gold swirling on the smooth floors. It reminds Dean of the windows in the little church down the road from his house. They glitter in the sun in just about the same way as these, though they’re nowhere near as clean, and they don’t dazzle Dean in the same way these do. It’s just _so_ beautiful.

He knows he should be out there trying to get to know Castiel better, but he’s content to just sit here in the silence, so that's what he does, watching as the sun carries the color across the floor as the minutes pass.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean’s heart flips, doing summersaults as he closes his eyes on a smile. He listens as Castiel’s slow steps make their way down to him.

“Is there any reason you’re sitting on my steps instead of outside on the grounds?” Castiel lowers himself down beside Dean, folding his hands in his lap as their shoulders brush—their knees bumping together with the slightest movement.

“Got tired of all the noise.” Dean shrugs, still watching the streaming sunlight as it dances on the floor and creeps up the first step, but every part of him is aware of every part of Castiel. “I never really noticed how quiet it is at home until I came here.”

“Hmm,” Castiel hums, drawing Dean’s gaze to him. The light bounces off the polished marble below, painting Castiel’s face with red, and yellow, and forest green—Dean could get lost in the startling beauty of it. “I always thought of this place as the loneliest in the world. Filled with people, but so lonely.”

Dean doesn’t lean closer, but he wants to. He wants to feel Castiel’s warmth against his own—to lean into his strength and soak into his peace. He doesn’t, but he _wants _to. “You’ll be happy to be married after this, then?”

Dean flushes as soon as the words leave his mouth. He knows that’s what they’re all here for, but something about the topic feels uncomfortable—something about bringing it up feels like he’s begging for a confirmation that it’ll be _him _that makes this place less lonely for the prince.

“With the right person, yes, I think so.” He doesn’t look at Dean, but the downward cast of his eyes—the way his dark lashes lower to cover the startling blue—makes Dean think that he, too, feels the tension in the question.

Dean changes the subject, spitting out the first thing that comes to mind.

“I used to dance in the rainbow lights, you know?” Heat prickles his cheeks, but he presses on even when Castiel raises an eyebrow. “In the church when I was a kid. Once a month, Mom would take me to the church on Sunday, and if it was sunny, the stained-glass would project light in the pulpit.” Dean smiles at the memory, seeing the exposed beams and worn, paint-chipped pews in his mind. “And I would dance. Wasn’t very good—‘m still not, to be honest—but…” He shrugs, nostalgia seeping through him as he sees it in his mind’s eye.

“Sounds wonderful,” Castiel whispers, the longing in his tone matching Dean’s as they watch the circle of color. “I was never allowed to dance. Well, I suppose that’s not entirely true; I had lessons up until I turned eighteen, but it was anything but enjoyable.”

Dean smiles but doesn’t comment as his fingers move to the paperclip he keeps tucked onto the end of his sleeve. It’s a thoughtless movement—sliding it off and on—as he catalogs the scenes of war and harvest displayed in the giant circle of colored glass above the grand entrance. He knows somewhere on the second floor, there’s a second set of doors that lead to the balcony where Castiel read out his name, along with the ten other suitors. It feels like so long ago, even if only a couple weeks have passed.

“What’s that?” Castiel asks after a moment, startling Dean from his thoughts. When he looks over, Castiel is staring at his fingers—the ones fiddling with the paper clip.

“Oh, this?” He slips off the paper clip, holding it up between their faces for Castiel to see. “It’s a paperclip.” Castiel’s frown only deepens, pulling the corners of his mouth down and tilting his head to the side in the way that’s far too adorable for a prince. “You know, in case I ever need to pick a lock—get into a room, or out of handcuffs, or—”

He stops, cutting himself off with a deep, burning flush and a knot in his stomach. Fuck, why the hell would he think telling _Castiel_ would be a smart thing to do? Stupid, stupid, _stupid_—

“Out of handcuffs, huh? I don’t suppose you’ve ever needed to test that theory?” Castiel chuckles softly, shaking his head, and the tension melts from Dean. “You might just have to show me sometime.”

“Why, your highness, are you planning on putting me in handcuffs?” Dean drawls, low and gravelly, and far more suggestive than he has any right to be.

Castiel laughs, his head thrown back and eyes closed as honey-yellow light bleeds into the red flush of his cheeks. “You’re terrible,” he says, still grinning as he looks over at Dean. He's never seen the prince like this; so flushed and happy—so calm and sweet.

“I think I’m adorable.” Dean purses his lips, making a show of propping his chin on his fist and tilting his head to the side. A strand of hair falls into his eyes, but he doesn’t bother brushing it away.

Castiel’s eyes linger on Dean’s for the longest time. They’re turned into each other, faces close, and it’s so goddamn intimate that Dean’s heart starts thumping in his chest. So close he can smell the freshly cut grass on Castiel’s skin, underlined by his honey-sunshine scent and perspiration.

“What do you think of Thursday’s surprise?” Castiel whispers, low and gravelly. His eyes flick over Dean’s face, the tip of his tongue poking out to wet his lower lip, and Dean doesn’t think he’s ever wanted to kiss another person so bad in his life. It feels like warm cocoa in his veins mixed with a buzz of energy he can't put a name to.

But he still grins wide and delighted, so excited about Thursday that it vibrates in his bones. “It’s the best surprise I’ve ever had. I’ve never been apple picking before, and then we get to _bake_? Yeah, the best surprise.”

Castiel leans closer, a softness in his eyes that Dean doesn’t quite understand. “You’re so easy to please,” he says, and for a moment, Dean’s not sure how to take that—whether or not he should be offended by it—because, essentially, Castiel just called him simple, right? And he’s _not _simple; he has complex hopes and dreams, and no, he’s not always easy to please.

But before he gets the chance to work through it anymore, Castiel is on his feet, a smile on his face, staring down at Dean. “Would you mind it too much if I showed you something?”

“Uh, sure,” Dean says, pushing himself up. He's more than a bit confused by the excitement in Castiel’s eyes, but he doesn't argue. “Where are we going?”

Castiel doesn’t answer but ascends the rest of the steps. “It’s a bit of a walk, but I promise it’s worth it. Come.” He holds his hand out to Dean, a smile on his lips, but Dean just looks at it.Is he allowed to take Castiel’s hand? He wants to take it—almost more than anything—but is he _allowed_? If it’s being offered, is it alright?

Dean’s fingers twitch at his sides and his stomach flips as Castiel’s smile dims a little.

“Cas, am I—” He swallows hard, and he just _knows_ the question is clear in his eyes—the uncertainty written all over his face. “Even if you offer, am I allowed to… to _touch_ you?”

Castiel clears his throat, his smile long gone as he drops his hand back to his side and faces Dean from a few steps above. “If you want,” he whispers, so low Dean wouldn’t hear him if it weren’t for the silence of the rest of the palace. “When I offer my hand, you can take it if you want to. But only if you want to.”

Then Castiel extends his hand again, gently, like he’s scared of something—like he’s scared Dean will say _no—_but that’s ridiculous because Dean’s still here, and he’s here for _Castiel, _only for Castiel.

Castiel’s fingers are warm against his own they Dean slides them together, intertwining them as he takes the last few steps to meet him. It feels right, somehow, to be holding his hand. It feels sweet and good, and just… _right_. And he’d do it forever if he could.

A rush of breath escapes between them and Castiel smiles, his shoulders sagging as he squeezes Dean’s fingers. The sight of that winning smile has butterflies swooping in Dean's stomach. “Come,” Castiel whispers again and leads Dean deeper into the upper floors.

“Can I have a hint?” Dean asks as Castiel leads him down hallways and through sitting rooms, never once letting go of his hand. The opulence of the decor is insane up here—so much _more _than the lower levels—and Dean marvels at all of it, head tipped back as he watches starlings swoop in the sky outside the grand windows.

“Hmm,” Castiel hums, thinking about it as Dean slows, taking a better look out the large window over the grounds. Most of the suitors mill around the grounds, looking bored and annoyed, but Hannah and Charlie are nowhere in sight. “Somewhere quiet.”

Dean smiles, contentment stealing over him as the halls open up, widening and brightening as the windows gradually take up more space on the walls. They don’t pass a soul along the way, which is odd considering how often Dean sees staff around.

“Where’s the staff?” Dean asks, looking down every hallway they pass like he expects someone to materialize out of thin air.

“They won’t be here. The staff tends to steer clear of my family's residential quarters.” Castiel glances over at him with a tiny smile, waiting for his reaction, but Dean just raises an eyebrow, smirking over at his prince.

“Royal quarters, huh?” He swings their hands between them as his heart flutters. “Where’re you taking me, _Prince _Novak?”

Castiel’s grin turns teasing and he wrinkles his nose. “Secret,” he whispers, and in an uncharacteristic show of affection, he pulls Dean closer, squeezing his hand as their hips bump.

Dean’s stomach swoops and dips, sending shivers down his spine as his heart thunders out of control. How can the heir to the throne be so fucking _adorable_? Dean almost wants to ask, no matter how ridiculous it would sound, just to hear Castiel's answer.

“What was it like?” Dean asks instead, to distract himself from the thrum of awareness in every part of him. “Growing up in the palace, I mean.”

Castiel doesn’t answer for a moment, his eyes trained on the floor as he thinks. “It was… fine, I suppose.” His gaze lifts to Dean’s and he smiles, small and unsure. “There was a lot of diplomacy training, and I was in the military from the age of sixteen until last year, but other than that, it was rather lonely.”

“What about your siblings?”

Castiel’s smile softens. “They have some of the same lessons, but the eldest is fifteen. Samandriel.” He laughs, fulls of delight as he looks over at Dean. “I suppose we both have a little brother named Sam.”

“I guess so.” Dean’s heart melts as Castiel continues, telling stories of growing up in the most extravagant and renowned place on earth.

“They’re good kids, and they’ll do great things, I’m sure.” They reach the bottom of a staircase, this one less grand than the others, and Dean has a sneaking suspicion they’re about to enter the section marked _No Admittance_. “They need some guidance, though, and I worry not all of them have it.”

“Am I allowed up here?” Dean asks as he’s led up the staircase to a landing with a set of double doors and, sure enough, right below the handles hangs a brass sign engraved with the words Dean knew would be there.

Castiel looks over at him, a spark in his eye that tells Dean all he needs to know. “Who’s going to tell you no when you’re with me?”

Dean chuckles, feeling a bit silly, but he still shrugs. “I don’t know, your parents?”

“My parents aren’t even _here_, Mr. Winchester.” He raises an eyebrow, one side of his mouth turning up in a playful smirk. “I’m _home_ _alone_.”

He lets his hand slip from Dean’s to open the doors, and the tiniest bit of disappointment swells in his chest. Okay, so more than a tiny bit—he wants to snatch it back up as to as the warmth of Castiel’s touch disappears.

The first thing Dean notices when he steps through the doors is just how _high _the ceilings are. There’s no stained-glass here, but the windows are much the same as they are in the rest of the palace—tall, wide, and open to the grounds beyond. The walls are bright and trimmed with cedar, and to Dean’s surprise, it’s pretty plain, otherwise, besides the detailed frescos coloring the ceilings. Few wallhangings, and even fewer decorations. There are some priceless artifacts, but even those are kept in glass cases—away from the children, probably.

“Home alone, huh? What do you normally do when you’re home alone?” Dean turns in a circle, looking around as quickly as he can before hurrying after Castiel, who’s halfway down the hallway by now.

“I run the kingdom, of course.” Castiel flashes a grin over his shoulder, disappearing around a corner, and Dean practically trips over his feet in his hurry to catch up.

“That’s all? No parties, or friends, or…” Dean trails off as he catches up, walking side by side with Castiel and watching him closely. He shouldn't ask—he _knows _it's none of his business—and he wants to tell him never mind, but for some reason, his mouth refuses to form the words.

“Or…” Castiel waits for Dean to continue, but when he doesn’t, he fills in the rest of the words for him. “Or someone special? Is that what you want to know?”

“It’s stupid to ask,” Dean whispers, shaking his head. Of _course_, there have been others. He’s twenty-one for fuck’s sake, of _course_—

“No.” The single word breezes from him like it’s the easiest thing in the world and Dean feels a weight lift off his chest. “Fun wasn’t something I was allowed very much of in my childhood. Which,” Castiel says, slowing down, and Dean didn't even notice the twists and turns and staircases they take up and down from floor to floor. “Brings us to my surprise.”

They stop in front of a stone wall with an ordinary wooden door stuck right in the middle. It’s so ordinary in the extravagant palace that it sticks out like a sore thumb.

“Come.” Castiel smiles, holding the door open as Dean shoots him a curious look, but he trusts him—probably more than he should after only two weeks—so he steps into the tiny, winding staircase and takes every step with a cautious look over his shoulder.

Shafts of pale light slice through the stony darkness, illuminating the dust motes kicked up with every step, and when Dean looks out of the surprisingly clean window, he sees as far as the sun-kissed treetops, then, as the stairwell winds around, all the way down the cobbled paths to the village square where road-side shops sit, open and bustling with vendors and shoppers alike.

“Where are we going?” Dean asks, more to himself than to Castiel, but the quiet sigh of awe in his voice carries through the cramped stairwell, mingling with the growing puffs of sand in every splash of golden sunlight on rough stone.

“Just keep going. All the way to the top.”

Dean does as he’s told, taking his time and, surprisingly, not feeling the least bit claustrophobic, even when the walls start closing in and tugging at the sleeves of his suit jacket. Dean sighs a breath of relief when the steps stop abruptly, blocked by a second door, this one much the same as the one below. He takes a second to catch his breath as his calves burn and thighs ache for a break. After a moment, he stretches out a hand before stopping and glancing over his shoulder at a slightly less sweaty Castiel. “Do I…?”

“Go ahead,” Castiel whispers, watching Dean with keen, penetrating eyes. Dean rests a few fingers on the handle and pushes it down, letting it swing in as he holds his breath.

When the room beyond comes into view, he forgets all about the nervous thrum on his veins as it morphs into dancing excitement. Turns out they’re at the top of a turret, the circular room lined with bookshelves except for one section which houses the most beautiful stained-glass window he’s ever seen. Stale air fills his nostrils, but it doesn't distract from the astonishing beauty of the space.

It takes up a quarter of the wall, extending into, and taking over the entire domed ceiling, and with the sun streaming through, they’re bathed in color. It dances over dozens of books, and as Dean does a slow turn, he finds tiny shelves and tables with little, ordinary trinkets, and a pile of cushions against the wall opposite the stained-glass window in the place of chairs.

It feels like a room plucked out of a fairytale, and when he runs his fingers over the old, leather spines of the closest books, the gold-etched titles jump out at him. _War and Peace_, _Moby Dick_, and even _Pride and Prejudice_.

“Have you read all of these?” Dean asks, still reading the titles as he makes his way around the room. Behind the pile of cushions is a small, normal window, and when he looks out, his breath catches. They’re so high up, the people on the ground are mere specks, zipping around like ants.

“I have. These are my favorites; the ones I keep for myself.” Castiel stops beside him, pulling the nearest book free from its case. “My father had it built for me when I was very young. It’s all I wanted for my sixth birthday when Samandriel was born.”

“It’s lovely,” Dean whispers, and he means it. It’s the most beautiful place he’s ever seen—so quiet and peaceful. He turns to face the stained-glass, eyes wide and mouth hanging open as he takes in the intricate sapphire roses and golden sunshine set into fragile glass. How could Castiel ever want to leave?

“It’s my favorite place in the palace.” Castiel slides the book back into place and brushes shoulders with Dean when he passes on his way to one of the trinket tables.

Dean follows, watching Castiel as he turns a solid brass astrolabe over in his hands. He sets it down on the tiny stand, making sure it tilts just so and reflects the light in dazzling brass stars.

“I’ve never brought anyone here before,” Castiel breathes, more to himself than to Dean, but when he turns to face him, his eyes shine with something more than the stained-glass glow.

“I’m your first, then?” Dean says, a cheeky grin on his lips, but the joke seems to go right over Castiel’s head as he steps closer.

“You are, and I would appreciate it if you would be the last.” Dean’s cheeks burn at the implications, but Castiel presses on, not a hint of a smile on his lips. “Please don’t bring anyone here. Use it to your heart’s desire, but _please_, Dean, don’t bring anyone here?”

“Uh, yeah,” he says, flustered as he shakes his head, then nods. “Of course, Cas—it’s our secret.”

Castiel sighs, his whole body sagging as all the tension seems to melt from his bones. “Thank you.” A soft smile curves his lips and butterflies swirl in Dean’s stomach. “Oh!” Castiel’s eyes widen, then he’s off across the room to a different trinket table.

A tinkling lullaby fills the air when Castiel opens a gilded silver jewelry box, but it cuts out almost as quickly when Castiel’s deft fingers pluck something out and close it again with a snap.

“You will need this,” he says, holding out a gold tag with swirling letters engraved on one side.

“A hall-pass?” Dean smirks as he takes the tag from Castiel’s hands, tapping it against his palm and raising an eyebrow. “_This _feels like high school.”

“Very funny,” Castiel says, rolling his eyes on a huff. “Make sure to keep it on you if you ever want to come here.” He heads for the door and Dean follows, taking one last look over his shoulder and cataloging the beauty of the room, almost as if it’s the last time he sees it. Who knows? It might be, but he’s going to do his damndest to memorize the way here on the walk back.

“Thank you.” Dean tucks the pass into the breast pocket of his jacket, keeping it hidden behind the handkerchief with the monogrammed _C,_ which he’s taken to using as for its _actual _purpose. “You know, for trusting me with all this.”

“Hm,” Castiel hums, the blue of his eyes made bright by the sunlight streaming through the windows as they go round and round, down the staircase. “My pleasure. All of this can be overwhelming even for me, so I can’t imagine what it’s like for you.”

“Right,” Dean says, as something pinches in his stomach. For some reason, that rubs him the wrong way—like Castiel thinks he’s some kind of sad orphan, not used to high-class society and doesn’t know how to deal. He’s not wrong, of course, but…

But he’s here to _marry _Castiel, not be his next charity case.

“I’m surprised no one’s come to find you.” The halls are quiet as Castiel closes the door at the bottom of the staircase, not a soul in sight.

“I told them not to. Actually, I’m supposed to be spending time with all of you, but—” He cuts himself off, an uncharacteristic blush rising from the collar of his crisp, white button-down.

“But, you had to make sure I wasn’t getting into any more mischief by myself?” Dean raises an eyebrow, half-joking, but half genuinely curious as to why Castiel _isn’t _out with the others.

“No,” he says, slowing their pace just a little as they come to a corner, and Dean makes sure to remember the jeweled, ruby-encrusted urn in the glass case directly across from it. “No, I just wanted to spend time with you.”

Then, Castiel steps closer and warm, strong fingers glide over Dean's palm, sending shivers up his arm as Castiel twines their fingers together. He gives Dean a shaky smile, but Dean’s heart flutters with happiness, and suddenly, he aches so bad for this—just to have this forever.To know Castiel will pick him in the end and that he won’t _need _the hall-pass, or to wait for his prince to make the first move.

He wants it all now—he wanted it _yesterday_—but this will have to do. So, he smiles, ignoring the lump in his throat and the ache in his heart, and squeezes Castiel's hand a little tighter, soaking it in until he’s forced to let go.

With a smile on his face and his head in the clouds, Dean doesn’t notice the ambush coming down on him when he steps back outside into the grounds.

“Where’ve you been?”

“We were looking for you earlier.”

“What’s with the smile?”

Dean sighs, already wanting to turn around and run for the rainbow room, but he doesn’t. He slips past Charlie and Hannah and heads for the barn.

“I was around,” he tells them, his heart as light as a feather as he watches the grass beneath his feet and the way the light plays with the leaves, casting dappled shadows along his path.

“No, you weren’t. _We _were around—the other suitors were _around_—but _you _weren’t, and now that I think of it, neither was the dear Crown Prince.” Charlie’s bright red head cuts into his line of sight as she hops in front of him, one eyebrow raised as Hannah’s feet join the picture.

Dean sighs, looking up as Charlie straightens and glances around at the people wandering through the grounds. He wishes he were with Castiel now, but he’d finally been pulled away at the bottom of the stairs outside the restricted section, and Dean hasn’t seen him since.

“I’ll tell you later,” he whispers, leaning close to his friends. “There’s too many people around.”

“_Ooh_,” Charlie sings, batting her eyelashes as a suggestive little grin pulls at the corners of her lips. “What did you _do_, Winchester?”

“What? No!” He shakes his head, flushing bright red as he waves them off. “No, nothing like that! We _talked_, but I’m not telling you anything else. Not right now.”

Honestly? He’s not sure he _wants _to tell them more. His day with Castiel is the best he’s had so far, and so what if he wants to keep it close, just for him and Cas?

Dean pushes through the barn doors, ignoring his friends' dramatic sighs and heading straight for Cookie’s stall.

At least she won’t ask him any questions.

Dean’s sure dessert is just as good as any other day—he’s _positive_ they haven’t tweaked the recipe or added something new—but still, he would swear on his last pair of hole-free socks that it’s the best slice of cherry pie he’s ever had.

Even when Jo pulls out a white envelope, lined with a deep, glossy sapphire edge, it doesn’t taste any less sweet.

“He caught me in the hallway just a few minutes before dinner.” She holds up the envelope, the light brown of her eyes shimmering in the overhead lights. “Said he’d be_ honored if I accompanied him_ on a date tomorrow. Can you believe it?” She wiggles in her seat, as Sarah and Kelly fawn over her.

Sure, maybe Dean should be more upset that Castiel spent most of the afternoon with him and decided to offer a date to Jo, but he’s not. He’s happy for her, as he hopes she’ll be for him when his date card comes.

He takes another bite of his pie and closes his eyes. Today was a good day, and he’s not about to let something so inconsequential as a date ruin it for him. And besides, he spent the entire afternoon with his prince in a secret, fairytale tower—if that’s not a date in itself, he doesn’t know what is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on Twitter at [allmystars_i](https://twitter.com/allmystars_i)  
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	18. WEEK THREE - Wednesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seven days is too long to wait, so for now, I'm posting twice a week while I've got the time to write. At some point, I need to write my DCBB fic, though, so posting will go back to once a week then.
> 
> I'll post probably on Wednesdays and Saturdays, but we'll see.
> 
> Let me know what you think!

It’s been about an hour since Dean watched Castiel lead Jo from the palace, hand hovering over the small of her back, but not quite touching.

He’d been about to step out of a side corridor, but he’d stopped just short when voices filtered down the hall and had peeked out to see what was going on.

Castiel had smiled, but not at him, and despite Dean’s resolve to be happy for Jo, an ache still pushed its way into his heart, and now, sitting on a hay bale in the training space connected to the barracks, it’s all he can think about.

“Oh, stop moping,” Charlie says, flopping down beside him with a sunshine grin and hay in her hair. “It’s not hot.”

“I’m not moping.” He is—he’s never moped so hard in his life, and he knows it—but he tries to smile anyway, just to prove his point.

“That’s the saddest excuse for a smile I’ve ever seen, like, _ever_.” She leans into him, a sigh falling from her lips as she throws an arm around his shoulders. “Seriously, though, there’s nothing you can do to make him love you more. He’s already crazy for you, so stop stressing so much.”

“You don’t know that,” he whispers, casting his eyes to the dirt-packed floor. It’s the one thing he can’t shake from his mind—how does he know Castiel treats him any different from the others? How does he know he’s not showing Jo the rainbow room _right now_? How does he know if he’s special at all? Just the thought that he might not be is like a fist to the gut. Castiel is just _so _important to him, and maybe it’s stupid to feel so much, so early, but what if his worst fears come true? What if he loves too much?

“Maybe not for sure, but, Dean, babe, whether you’re his number one or not, that man adores you.” Her smile turns soft and it’s so unlike her to be reassuring that he can’t help but take her at her word.

“Thanks, Char.”

“Anytime, Winchester. Now, up—we’re practicing our swordsmanship today, and it’s about time I kicked your ass.” She pushes off the hay bale, dusting off the seat of her fitted linen pants—she finally won the war against her stylist for suits over skirts this morning—and skips off to where Hannah stands, watching the sparring soldiers in the middle of the space.

Dean heaves a heavy sigh, still feeling the weight of unease in his chest, but Charlie’s right—there’s nothing he can do—so he follows behind her, determined to make the most of his time here, and the best of his time with Castiel, no matter how little of it he might have left.

“Better!” Victor shouts across the open space when Dean successfully manages to block and parry every attack with his wooden training sword. He can’t help but grin as he pushes his sweaty hair back from his forehead, pride swelling in his chest.

“You’re a natural, Winchester,” Hannah says from her perch. She refuses to join in, telling them she’d kick their asses if she did, and Dean’s not about to challenge that—he’s sure she has some kind of top-grade royal training under her belt.

“Hey, if this whole Prince Charming thing doesn’t work out, we’re always looking for new recruits.” Victor tosses his sword aside as he speaks, taking Dean’s as well.

Dean struggles to catch his breath, panting hard as he unbuttons his sweat-soaked shirt and peels it off. It’s not actually a bad idea, and he’s sure it pays more than working odd jobs in the village.

“Oh, yeah? How would someone like me get into that?” He tosses his shirt aside, too damn oblivious to notice the gawping stares directed his way.

Victor’s eyebrows shoot up as he spins to look at Dean. “Seriously? You’d be interested?”

“Yeah, if, as you say, this whole Prince Charming thing doesn’t work out, why not?” He shrugs, leaning back against the wall and crossing one ankle over the other. Thinking about things not working out with Castiel isn't exactly the best distraction from _thinking about things not working out with Castiel_, but he'll take what he can get.

“Dean, what—no, you can’t join the military!” Hannah's smile drops as she hurries over, a look of horror washing over her face. “No, you could get hurt, or _killed_—no, you _can’t_.”

“Why not?” He scowls at her, crossing his arms over his chest. “Victor’s a soldier, and so is Dorothy; why can’t I?”

“Because they’re… and you’re—”

“I’m _what_?”

“You’re different.”

“Why, because I’m your friend?" He quirks an eyebrow, knowing he's got her when her mouth hangs open but not more words fall out. "I’m not like you, you know? People like me join the military all the time, so _why not_?” Dean stares her down, waiting for her to come up with a clever retort, but she shrinks under his gaze. He looks back at Victor.

“If you’re serious, you’ll need to interview with the general, but I have my doubts about him letting you in—he’s not big on pretty-boys.” Dean rolls his eyes at that, but Victor continues without noticing. “To get an interview, you’ll need to submit an application—I can get that for you—and once you’re in, your training starts.”

“Dean, you can’t—” Hannah’s voice grows desperate, but Dean doesn't bother arguing with her this time. He ignores her as excitement swells up inside him with every word—why hadn’t he thought of it before? If Dean’s sent home, he’ll still need to get a job, so why not as a soldier?

But, if he’s sent home and becomes a soldier, he’ll have to come back here, and how is he to know what kind of heartbreak he’ll feel at seeing Castiel with his chosen spouse? The only way he _won’t_ have to see him is if—

“And deployment? When does that happen?”

Victor looks over his shoulder at Dean, eyebrow raised in surprise as he straps on his armor. “After your training is complete, you can be shipped off in a few weeks—three, I think is the minimum.”

Dean’s future suddenly seems so clear, and yeah, it’s not the one he wants—not with Castiel as his husband, but with him as his soldier—but it’s better than starving. Better than working himself to the bone and _still _not being able to pay the bills. It’s not his favorite version, but it’s the realistic one, and it’ll do just fine.

“Keep those papers on hand, would you?” Dean snatches up his shirt and jacket as he heads for the door. “In case I need them soon.”

Dean pulls his shirt back on, dirt-smudged and wrinkled, but leaves it unbuttoned as he strolls across the grounds. With his jacket slung over one shoulder and a soft breeze cooling his heated skin, he whistles to the tune of the songbirds flying over his head.

Still, as he wanders the paths alone, there’s a weight in his heart. He misses Castiel—he’s sure that’s it—and there’s nothing he can do to remedy that.

“Oh, Dean!” He jumps at the sound of Jo’s voice, tripping over his feet as he rounds the rose bushes. “I’ve been looking everywhere for someone!”

Her face glows in the sunshine, radiant as ever as she beams, flashing her teeth in a red sundress. “What’s up?” He slows his pace as she catches up with him, and she’s practically bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“Dean, he’s so wonderful! Just the sweetest, politest, gentleman I’ve ever met.” She pulls him down onto a bench, cheeks flushed and doe-eyed, and Dean’s stomach turns. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt so good about anyone in my life.” She grabs onto his arm, tugging at his sleeve as her grin widens. “You know what we did?”

Dean shakes his head, though he’s not sure he wants to know.

“He took me to the theatre for a matinee. _Princess Bride_—that’s what we watched. It was so wonderful, and then we went for lunch and I told him all about my family. He’s such a wonderful listener, isn’t he?”

“He is,” Dean agrees, nodding, but she just keeps talking, and Dean wonders if the reason Castiel was such a _great listener_ is that he couldn’t get two words out without being overrun.

“God, I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more in my life than to be made his queen—I hope he picks me.” She sighs, her shoulders falling as she does, but the smile on her face only grows.

Even as she says it, Dean hopes to anything that’s out there that Castiel _doesn’t _pick her.

Then he kicks himself for it—he’d promised himself he’d be happy for her. She’s his friend and, yeah, they’re here for the same reason, but she’s not his enemy, and neither are the others.

With renewed resolve, he smiles. “Tell me about it,” he says, but still, a stray thought sneaks in, and once it’s there, it refuses to leave no matter how hard Dean tries to shake it off.

Did Castiel show Jo the rainbow room, too?

With a scolding, a shower, and a new suit from Susie, Dean’s ready for dinner, but when he gets to the dining hall, the only seat left is the one directly across from Castiel.

Dean sighs—he’d expected as much, but it’s still disappointing—and he lowers himself into his chair.

What he’s _not _expecting, is the _noise_. Most of the other suitors lean over their plates, listening closely as Castiel addresses each one of them in turn. His deep, gravelly voice never changes its tone, and Dean would be lying if he said he isn’t disappointed when Castiel doesn’t even spare a glance his way when he sits.

Dean leans into Charlie’s side, who shovels food into her mouth, not bothering to jump into the conversation alongside the others. “What’re they doing?”

“Huh?” Charlie’s head pops up, her cheeks filled with mashed-potatoes, before smirking. “Oh, _that_.” A laugh bubbles out of her as she shakes her head.

Before she can answer, Mick claps his hands, a grin splitting his face as he draws their attention. “Congratulations, everyone! Top ratings again.” Dean’s eyes slide to Castiel, but he’s giving Mick his full attention. “As was mentioned last week, fan-favorites will be announced after dinner.”

The rest of the suitors clap and Charlie rolls her eyes, but Dean frowns—fan-favorites?

“Fan-favourites?” He asks Charlie, who’s back to stuffing her face as the others move in to inundate Castiel with their attention.

“Part of the TV show thing. The viewers vote for favorites and the favorites from the next three weeks go with Castiel to a talk show to discuss the experience.” She shrugs, spooning some peas between her lips before tossing the utensil aside and sitting back in her chair. “I guess they think the best way to get Castiel to like them, and the viewers to like them, is to maul him at dinner.” Another shrug and Dean smirks.

“So, who’s the fan-favorite?” He looks from Hannah to Jo, both of whom are leaning in, chins on their palms, listening intently to Castiel’s every word. Meg giggles like a schoolgirl and Michael is doing his damndest to sound informed but only manages to sound like a pretentious idiot.

Sarah and Kelly ask a lot of questions and flip their hair so much Dean’s surprised they haven’t strained their wrists, and April leans in close on Castiel’s other side, doing her best to flirt without letting the others hear.

“Don’t know,” Charlie says, and picks up her spoon. “We’ll find out after dinner.”

Through the rest of dinner, Dean doesn’t speak, his mind filled with fan-favorites and talk shows. With his absence the week before, he’s positive his name will be at the bottom of the list—no more than tenth, anyway, since he’d imagine Balthazar isn’t too high up.

He’d be surprised if anyone even remembers him after being gone all last week, but it’s not like their vote decides if he stays or goes, so does it really matter?

After a while, when Dean gets tired of listening to the others, he asks Charlie about her date with Dorothy.

Her face brightens as she leans in, making sure to cover her mic before she speaks—dating while in the competition is considered treasonous and punishable by imprisonment. “It was _perfect_!” With shining eyes, she looks to some far off corner of the room. “I’ve never met anyone like her. She packed a lunch, and we went for a walk—you wouldn’t _believe _how well she knows the grounds…”

The sitting room’s setup is all wrong.

As soon as Dean steps through the door, he stops, looking around for the dessert tables that always line one side of the room, but they’re not there, and Dean’s mood plummets. He sulks to a sofa—also not in the right spot—and falls into the corner with Charlie hot on his heels. All the chairs and couches, which normally sit facing each other, are set up in a semi-circle of sorts to face a screen set up against the dessert wall.

“So they took out the pie for a screen? This is bullshit,” Dean mumbles, huffing as he crosses his arms over his chest and his bottom lip sticks out in a pout.

“Aw, don’t _whine_—it’s unflattering.” Charlie leans in and pinches his stubbled cheek. “You can do without pie for a _day_.”

“Let’s just get this over with,” he says, sinking deeper into the cushions.

“Did you not eat enough?” Hannah asks, leaning over Charlie with concern in her eyes, but Dean waves her off.

“Of course he ate enough,” Charlie says, answering for him. “He _always_ eats enough... for an entire village.”

“_Hey_!” Dean’s pout deepens, but she’s not wrong—the food was delicious as always, and he’s stuffed to the gills, but there’s _always _room for dessert. “No need to be mean.” Couldn't they have the TV screen _and _dessert tables? He's starting to think they just don't want him to be happy.

Then the lights dim to a soft, golden glow, and the screen lights up with the same opening reel as the Sunday viewing, except when Duma appears onscreen, she’s out in the square in front of the palace where crowds of people gather close to the camera, hands clasped in front of grinning faces as they huddle close to keep warm in the cool night air.

“Is this live?” Dean asks, craning his neck to look for Mick, but finding Castiel instead. He only nods before looking back at the screen and Dean’s stomach drops at the brushoff. Not even a word? A _smile_, even? _Nothing_?

He turns back around, facing forward and keeping his eyes strictly on the thousands of grinning faces tucked in close to each other.

“Good evening, Amarellino!” She smiles wide at the camera as the crowd cheers, waving their hands as the bright camera lights reflect in their eyes, showing off their rosy cheeks and happy smiles. “After two weeks of getting to know the suitors, the first of the Fan-Favourites will be calculated. As you should all know, the favorites of the next few weeks will appear on a talk show with none other than the Crown Prince, himself.”

The crowd cheers louder and Dean’s heart warms—if nothing else, he’s glad Castiel is well-loved by his people.

“The votes have been cast, and in just a few minutes, we will be counting down to the fan-favorite and the first to be chosen to attend the interview.” She pauses, dazzling the world with another smile. “Now, I know what you’re thinking—what if a favorite gets sent home?—and I’m here to tell you that they will _still _participate, so fret not.”

Dean scowls—won’t that be awkward? To see the man who didn’t like you enough to keep you around on a talk show about finding a spouse? And for Castiel, too, who’s eyes Dean swears he feels on the back of his neck—won’t that be _painfully_ uncomfortable?

God, he’s almost _glad _he probably won’t be picked this week—wouldn’t that just be humiliating?

“Without further ado, let’s see those picks!” Duma takes an envelope, much like the ones that hold the date cards, and pulls out a slip of paper.

“Number eleven, and one most probably won’t remember—Balthazar Salazar!” _Called it_, Dean thinks. “Balthazar was the first to leave the palace, though none are certain he remembers his time there at all. The son of a landowner on the coast, Mr. Salazar was a shoo-in, but his dirty little habits and lack of effort didn’t get him very far with the prince, or the viewers.”

That’s all they say on him before Duma opens the next envelope, and Dean, along with everyone else in the room, watches with rapt attention, on the edge of their seats, waiting for their name to be called.

“The tenth spot on our list of eleven goes to someone most of us look back on with ill feelings—Lily Sunder!” The crowd boos and Dean does too, but under his breath so no one else hears. “Lily was sent home last week after the shocking revelation during a _different _suitors date, that the incident with one _Dean_ _Winchester_, was a setup to have him removed from the palace.”

Wait, _what_?

Dean scowl, confusion mudding his head as he turns to Charlie. “What was revealed? What happened?”

Charlie leans in without ever looking away from the screen. “Dude, that was the big thing on Sunday’s episode! Weren’t you paying attention?” No. No, obviously, he wasn’t. Charlie huffs. “Meg couldn’t keep her mouth shut about it—so fucking smug—and gave Lily up so damn quick when she accidentally let it slip that you were tripped.” She shakes her head but nudges him when Duma’s handed the next card.

This has got to be him. There’s no way—

“Number nine goes to, and I quote, ‘The one with the pickle up his ass.’” She cringes, but Dean laughs, knowing for damn sure it isn’t him this time as he watches Michael shift in his seat from the corner of his eye. “Michael Haven!”

He throws his head back, a deep, belly laugh bursting from his as he closes his eyes—it’s about damn time someone told it like it is, but the whole kingdom? Dean couldn’t have hoped for more.

“Michael Haven comes from a long line of nobility, educated in the most prestigious academies Amarellino has to offer. Some might find this charming or attractive, but the voters here tonight find him to be, and again, I’m quoting.” Dean can see the wince as she reads the phrase. “‘A pretentious kiss-ass.’”

Dean can’t help it—a snort bursts from him and he slaps a hand over his mouth to hold back the laughter that rolls through him, shaking his shoulder as he ducks his head. Beside him, Charlie doesn’t do quite as good a job at hiding it, and her giggles ring out amidst the quiet muttering.

“For these reasons—and others, I’m sure—Michael Haven is number nine on the Fan-Favourites list.” Duma takes a sip of water before the next envelope is handed over, this one with a looping eight on the front in Amarellino sapphire.

She clears her throat. “Number eight goes to an heiress from the hills, Sarah Blake, daughter of founder and CEO of Blake’s Construction. Besides being a little ditzy, she's sweet, though the viewers haven’t seen enough of her to form any sort of opinion, and for this, she is voted number eight.”

Really? Dean wasn’t there for almost the _entire _past week, but _Sarah _isn’t known well enough? A trickle of unease curls in his gut, though he’s not sure why. Surely, he’ll be next, right?

“Number seven…’ Duma pulls out the card and Dean reaches for Charlie’s hand. She gives it easily—willingly, like she’d already been reaching for him—and a part of Dean wants nothing more than to be able to do this with Castiel. The other part of him is terrified of hearing his name on Duma’s lips in three… two… one—

“Is Meg Masters!” Dean’s heart drops, then leaps, because _ha!_ He beat the demon bitch, and really, even if he’s next on the list, that’s enough. “The foreign mistress with devilish good looks and a wicked attitude just doesn’t cut it for the people of Amarellino, and they call her ‘too mean for our good-hearted prince.’”

“They’re not wrong,” Dean mutters, and he thinks he might just hear a soft, rumbling chuckle at his back.

“Almost halfway there, folks,” Duma says as she’s handed an envelope with a number six on it. Behind her head, the lights of the palace glow through the stained-glass window above the door, and there are lights on in the upper floors, but no one passes by the windows. The place is just as lonely as it always is.

“Number six goes to Joanna Harvelle. The pretty blonde comes from a line of wealthy restaurant chain owners, most popular of which is The Roadhouse. She’s a little rough around the edges but bubbly and enthusiastic about the prince, so she could very well shoot up the list in the coming weeks, say the viewers.”

Dean smiles, leaning forward to find Jo at the end of the couch next to the one he, Charlie, and Hannah are sitting on. She catches his eye and beams back, still glowing from her date with the prince.

“Top five! Here we go!” The crowd quiets even further and Charlie squeezes Dean’s hand. It’ll be him—it’s got to be him. “Charlie Bradbury!” Not him. “Of Bradbury Farm’s, is a fiery, spirited redhead with a flair for the dramatics that draws the attention of almost everyone. Everyone but the prince, that is.” Duma raises an eyebrow and beside Dean, Charlie laughs.

“The conversations between Miss Bradbury and the prince have been few far between, and often lack substance, but the young red-head can often be found hanging out with the soldiers.” Duma makes a suggestive face and Dean rolls his eyes. “Very interesting, if I do say so myself.”

“_Very Interesting_, she says,” Dean whispers, leaning closer to Charlie and nudging her with his elbow.

“Shut up.”

Dean chuckles, glancing around the room at the others, who sit forward—those whose names haven’t been read watch the screen with anxious eyes, and most of those who's names have come and gone look a little pissed off. He can’t say he blames them—most of the try-hards landed near the bottom.

“Number four goes to Kelly Kline—a secretary for the governor of a foreign state. ‘Cute as a button,’ the fans say, ‘if a little too forward.’” Again, Duma raises an eyebrow. “Sounds like she’s a bit of a flirt according to the fans.” Kelly scoffs from the other couch, but Dean can’t say he disagrees. The kitchen incident still plagues him even now.

“All that girl wants is the prince’s—”

“Meg!” April snaps, cutting Meg off before she can finish her sentence, and for once, Dean thinks he might actually agree with her. Kelly all but said it herself in the first week.

“Down to the top three!” The crowd cheers so loud, Dean swears he can hear them in real-time outside the palace doors. Is his family out there too? Did they come to cheer him on? “The number three spot for the Fan-Favourites list in week three goes to…” She pulls the card from the envelope. “April Kelly!”

Did they just leave him off the list, or…?

“An heiress with a heart of gold, the young philanthropist is committed to feeding the homeless and helping them find refuge from the horrors of their lives. The fans think this darling could go all the way, though she’s a bit enthusiastic for some of their tastes, which puts her in spot number three for this week.”

Dean’s heart stutters in his chest when he realizes there are only two spots left. He leans forward now, too, dropping Charlie’s hand and resting his chin on his fists as he waits, still shocked that he’s so high up in the first place.

“Final two,” Duma says before turning to a woman in the crowd. Her frizzy blonde hair is familiar, and when Dean looks closer, so are her eyes, and shit, that’s his mom!

“That’s my mom!” he shouts, pointing at the screen. How had he not noticed before? The lights—he’s blaming the lights.

“Shh!” Everyone in the room hisses, glaring at him before refocussing on the screen, but she’s right _there_ and all he wants to do is run out into the crowd and wrap her in his arms.

Duma holds the mic under his mom’s nose. “Who do you think the fan-favorite will be?”

Mary Winchester clears her throat, her cheeks reddening a little, but her smile is bright and warm. “Oh, well, I’m a little biased, I must say. Dean’s my little boy so, as his mom, how could I think it’ll be anyone but him?” She grins, then rushes to continue. “Not that Miss Hannah isn’t lovely, but my Dean will always be this fan's favorite.”

Embarrassment floods him and he buries his face in his hands on a groan—God, did she have to? Did she really _have _to say that on _international _TV?

Duma asks a few more people who they think it’ll be, and the answers vary, going from _absolutely Hannah _to _absolutely Dean_ and everywhere in between. One even said he thinks April will get the top spot.

“It’s time to reveal the top picks of the week!” She opens the envelope and pulls out the slip. Dean looks over at Hannah, who smiles, and he shoots her a wink while taking her hand across Charlie’s lap. “The second-place spot goes to… Hannah Becket!”

For a moment, it doesn’t quite register that he's the top pick, but the instant Dean looks back at the TV and sees his mom jumping up and down with happy tears streaming down her cheeks, it sinks in, and this time, he really does hear the crowd outside the palace.

“A princess of the neighboring kingdom, Hannah is an obvious choice, with her debonair manners and charming good looks. She would make the perfect partner for our dear prince.” Duma pauses, her smile never losing its professional edge. “But your first choice—your _Fan-Favourite_—is the poor village boy from ‘down the road’ as he puts it, Dean Winchester!”

The room erupts into cheers—cast, and crew together—except for a select few who grumble in the corner, but he expects that. Dean still can’t believe it—he was _gone _for a week, they shouldn’t even remember him!

“The adorable local stole the hearts of millions with his sweet charm and kind heart. In the words of a voter, ‘if the prince doesn’t marry him, I’m next in line.’ Aren’t we all,” Duma says. “Let’s have a look in on them now, shall we?”

Then Dean’s flushed and smiling face pops up on the screen and shock hits him hard as he leans back, away from the camera suddenly in his face.

Charlie throws her arms around his neck, tackling him with a radiant smile and distracting him from the TV, which switches views over to Castiel.

“Told you, boy!” Mick shouts, slapping his shoulder as Duma wraps up onscreen and it turns back to the regular programming. “Told you they’d love you.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Dean rolls his eyes. “You make me look like an idiot.” He huffs, embarrassed beyond anything as he sinks deep into the cushions and covers his face with his hands. God, he just wants to disappear—find someplace quiet and disappear—

“Dean,” a deep, gravelly voice says to his left, and when Dean peels his fingers away from his eyes, he finds Castiel standing there, smiling down at him with a plate in his hands.

Dean sits up, his mouth watering as he stares at the pie. “Hey, Cas,” Dean says, far more distracted than he should be when talking to the prince.

“For you.” Castiel holds out the plate as he lowers himself into the seat beside him, leaning forward as his smile widens. “I suppose this is what all the pouting was about?”

“You know me so well,” Dean sighs, taking the plate in hand and trying to ignore the way his fingertips brush over Castiel's. The sweet peach pie practically melts in his mouth and he moans softly, closing his eyes to savor the flaky pastry and sticky syrup. “Best pie I’ve ever had.”

Castiel chuckles and brings his chair closer. “What did you think of the show?”

“Embarrassing—_so _embarrassing.” Dean shakes his head but he, too, leans closer with a smile as butterflies flutter in his belly. “I still don’t get it, though—why I’m their favorite, that is.”

Castiel dips his chin as he speaks, his voice quiet, but his words hold so much conviction that Dean can't help but listen. “You’re too hard on yourself. _I _can see why you are their favorite; isn’t that enough?”

“Sure, your highness, it can be enough.” Dean raises an eyebrow, teasing, but somewhere in his heart, he knows it _isn't_ enough—he wants to be _Castiel’s _favorite, not just the peoples’.

“_Your highness_,” Castiel mimicks, chuckling under his breath as he shakes his head. There's a bitter note in his voice, but Dean doesn't shy away, only grinning wider when Castiel lifts his head to meet Dean's eyes. “I won’t lie, though; it _was_ rather embarrassing, wasn’t it?”

“But they love you,” Dean whispers, his body swaying closer to Castiel's, but he's oblivious to the others who watch them—some glaring, others looking on with keen interest as Castiel gives Dean his full attention.

Castiel sighs, but doesn’t respond as a flush darkens his cheeks, and the sight of it sends a shiver of delight through Dean—he revels in the happiness in Castiel’s eyes, knowing it’s rare to see it so purely. 

Instead of responding, Castiel slips the fork from Dean's fingers and takes a bite of his perfect peach pie, making sure to get extract filling. Heat bubbles low in his stomach as Castiel makes sure to clean off the tines before handing it back.

Then, in his calmest, most nonchalant voice possible, he asks, “How was your day?” A drop of filling spills over Dean's chin when his shakey don't quite get the fork to his mouth, and he tries to lick it off but gets nowhere. Castiel holds out a napkin and Dean takes it with a smile. “I heard you were in the barracks, training with my soldiers.”

“I was, yes.” Dean nods, a little thrill shooting through him with the memory. “It was fun.”

Castiel smiles, cocking his head to one side as he raises an eyebrow and sits back in his chair. “Were you any good?”

“What?” Dean pops his head up, heat rising in his cheeks. He thinks he did pretty well, but how is he to say if he’s _actually _any good?

“Were you any good?” The playful note in Castiel’s voice strengthens, and he bites his bottom lip as pleasure tingles in Dean’s bones to push out the embarrassment. “Were you, say… Better than me?”

“A military man like yourself?” Dean whispers, hardly noticing how they both lean closer. “Of course not—I barely made it out of there with my life, you know? What with those dangerous wooden swords, and all.”

Castiel laughs, adjusting the lapels of his jacket as he scoots forward in his chair. “Ah, good answer." Then something changes in his smile—softening and strengthening all at one—and Dean's heart stutters in his chest. "I’m glad you have friends here. I’m glad you’re happy.”

“Excuse me, your highness?” A member of staff cuts in, but Castiel barely notices, and never looks away from Dean as he listens to what the man has to say. “Mr. Davies would like a word, and Duma has come to discuss some logistics as well.”

“They will wait,” he says, but there’s a strain in his voice as he waves the servant away and Dean can tell his time with his prince is limited. “Tell them I will find them later.”

“Yes, your highness.”

Dean watches as the man leaves, but his attention is drawn back just as quickly when Castiel speaks.

“Mr. Winchester,” he says, reaching forward without touching, and the glint in his eyes confuses Dean for only a moment. “Is that mine?”

“Is what—” Shit. Fuck—the handkerchief. “I—uh, yeah, uh, yes, it is, I—” He reaches for it, his face burning with embarrassment, but Castiel wraps Dean’s fingers in his own, pulling his hand away from the monogrammed linen.

Dean’s taken aback by what he sees in Castiel’s eyes—so much emotion that he doesn’t understand, but it lightens his heart anyway, especially when Castiel doesn’t let go right away. “Keep it,” he says. “As a gift. Please, keep it.”

“Thank you,” Dean whispers as something foreign and unnamed swells in his chest. It chokes him up and stings the back of his eyes as he nods, but he can’t bear to tear his eyes away from his prince.

He just knows it's going to hurt so damn bad to lose this. He knows it, but still, like a moth to a flame, he can’t help but let himself be drawn in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	19. WEEK THREE - Thursday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do y'all think about posting twice a week? Not that I'm changing it, but still. If I could post a chapter a day and keep up with it, I would, but there's no way I can do that without burning out or posting absolute crap, so twice a week will have to do.
> 
> Also, I know we're a long way from the end, but what do y'all think of timestamps from Castiel's perspective? Just some times when Dean's unaware of him, but Castiel is around, or when Dean's questioning Castiel's feelings, or whatever. I'll write them anyway, but are there specific scenes you'd like to request? Let me know!
> 
> Anyway, let me know what you think!

Dean pulls on his overcoat after Susie leaves, knowing the nights have turned colder, and he’s not about to freeze his ass off and ruin the outing for himself.

He wraps a scarf around his neck and pulls on his mittens, not really caring if he looks like a marshmallow, though he’s sure the rest of the suitors will.

Dean makes sure to tuck a hat in his pocket as he wanders down the halls, in no hurry to sweat any more than he already is, but when he steps out the front doors and onto the steps, he’s thankful for the extra layers.

A cold breeze sinks a chill into his bones as it cuts through his hair, and he decides to pull on his hat, after all, before making his way down to the square, which is closed to the public on most days.

“Bloody fuck, it’s cold,” Charlie shouts from behind Dean, and he spins around, a laugh already bubbling up in his throat, but it’s cut short when the hat is snatched from his head.

“Hey!” Dean yells, tripping over his feet as he tries to catch her, but she slips by, too quick on her feet as she pulls his hat down over her red-tipped ears. “Get your own! My ears are cold,” he whines when she disappears behind Hannah, ducking through the suitors to avoid him.

Dean sighs, his shoulders dropping as he stops in the middle of the square, giving up the chase. He’ll get it from her later, but there’s no point in—

“Will this do, Mr. Winchester?” Castiel’s quiet voice says by his side, and when Dean looks over, he finds a dark, knit hat held out in the prince’s hand.

“Th-thank you,” he says, taking the hat from Castiel and pulling it on. It falls over his eyebrows, tickling his eyelashes before Castiel comes around to stand in front of him and pushes it back up, a smile barely curving his lips as he surveys Dean with shining blue eyes.

“Are you warm?” he whispers, quiet enough that only Dean can hear as the guards step away to give them some privacy. “Are you happy?”

“Yes,” Dean answers, a grin lighting up his face as sweet, syrupy warmth settles in his bones. “Yes, both. Thank you, your highness.”

“Good.” Castiel lets his gloved fingers graze the back of Dean’s hands before he steps away, turning to the road as a limousine pulls up to the curb. Dean’s seen them before—not often, but whenever a diplomat came to town when he was a kid, his mom would shout from the kitchen window and Dean would race to the door and press his face against the glass to watch it pass—but he’s certainly never ridden in one. 

“Looks like you’ve got yourself a hat,” Charlie says as she sidles up next to him, a grin on her face and Dean’s hat on her head. “_And_, curtesy of his highness.”

“That’s right, because of your thievery, I’ve got myself a royal beanie.” Dean throws an arm around her shoulders join the crowd waiting to get into the limo behind Castiel.

“You’re welcome.” Charlie wraps an arm around his waist and they take a step forward as Dean tips his head back and squints at the cornflower blue sky. Just before they reach the door, Hannah pops out of nowhere, bouncing in her heeled boots.

“Hey, you two,” she says, grinning as she lays a hand on Dean’s arm. “You look warm.”

“And you look lovely,” Dean says, allowing her to duck into the car before him. When they’re all inside and the door is closed behind him, Dean can’t help but marvel at the beauty of the interior of the vehicle.

The beige leather seats lighten the otherwise dark interior, and the tinted windows keep the sun out of Dean's eyes as the other suitors pass around a bottle of champagne. They’re in their own little bubble with the divider up between them and the driver—no bulky cameras—and only Nicholas with a small hand-held as the rest of the TV crew leads the way, and a fleet of guards follows behind.

Castiel is on the other side of the car, but Dean doesn’t mind. He’s more than happy to catch up with Hannah and Charlie.

“I spoke to my mother on Saturday,” Hannah says after the excitement settles down a bit and they’re able to hear each other over the hum of tires on asphalt. “Things are good at home, she tells me. My father had a cold when I left, but he’s better now.”

“That’s good,” Dean says, offering her a smile. “And your siblings? How are they?”

“They’re good—my younger brother will be joining the military in a few months. He’s not quite sixteen, but the soldiers are training with him already. My father isn’t all that excited about it, but my mother couldn’t be more proud. I'm not comfortable with it, but my opinion is never considered in these matters.” Dean doesn't miss the bitter twist of her lips when she says it, and he's one again reminded of his own interest in the military. He doesn't bring it up, not wanting an argument to ruin this day. 

Dean listens intently as she carries on, fascinated by the life of a royal, even if that royal is a princess of a small kingdom. Her life is different from Castiel’s—from what he knows of it, anyway. Not so many rules or responsibilities thrust upon her as the fourth child of the king of a minor kingdom.

“Oh, look!” Charlie cries, pointing out the window as their car passes rows and rows of trees, thick branches hanging heavy with fruit and going on for miles. “You know, we have apple orchards back home—nothing like this, of course, but I’d bet Dad’s got the staff harvesting as we speak.”

Dean stares out the window at the passing trees, charmed by the beauty of the old, twisting branches. He’d be more than happy to get lost between the bows of the largest one, gorging himself on the sweet fruit and napping in the summertime sun.

He breathes out a whistful sigh as the limousine turns into the parking lot, feeling a flutter longing in his chest for a future where he's allowed to do just that, but they stop outside a tiny cabin with smoke pouring from the chimney and the scent of hot apple cider wafting from every inch before he can get too far with the fantasy. This place is what Dean imagines heaven smells like, and he practically falls from the door when it’s opened.

The chill in the air is harsher here, but not overbearing. Still, Dean pulls his hat lower over his ears as he spins in a circle, taking it all in before stopping to read the sign that stretches in an arch over the entrance. “Thanks for visiting the royal orchards, please come again,” he reads, under his breath so no one hears him as they step from the car.

“Neat, huh?” Charlie tucks herself against Dean’s side, shivering despite the stollen hat. Her cute sweater and puffy vest not doing much to ward off the chill. “My father only does a late summer and fall harvest, but I’d bet the Novaks do it all. Come on.”

With an arm around his waist, Charlie steers him towards the cabin, chattering away about apples. Following behind the rest of the shivering suitors, gravel crunching beneath their perfectly polished shoes, Dean can't help but search Castiel out in the crowd, and he finds him with his head bent close to April's, smiling as he listens to her talk.

Dean looks away as his stomach clenches, a twinge of jealousy working its way in, and he knows it’s ridiculous, but holy fuck, if they ever wanted to emotionally torture a person, this is the best way to do it.

The inside of the cabin is almost _too _warm, but the fresh apple-pie scent makes up for it, and Dean’s mouth waters.

The space is half-filled with little round tables, seating four at the most and even then, it’s crowded. The other half is taken up by a long, solid oak countertop, and behind it sit cooling racks filled with desserts, three ovens, glowing withfirelight, and a tiny little man in an apron—older than dirt and as frail and shaky as the teacup clutched in his slim fingers.

The man smiles when Castiel steps up to the counter, his bottle-cap glasses sliding down his long nose, but it doesn’t look like he can see much of anything anyway.

Castiel slips off his gloves and tucks them in his pocket as he speaks. “Reginald, I trust you’re well?”

“I am, your highness,” the old man croaks, bowing his head as the little green teacup rattles against the counter. “What brings you here with so many… guests?”

Castiel chuckles as he half turns to look at them all. “You haven’t been following the news, I see? These are my suitors, dear Reggie; they’re courting me.”

“Oh, they _are_, are they?” He pushes his glasses up high on his nose, his bald head reflecting the oven glow as he looks them over with dull, milky blue eyes. “You,” he says, pointing at Hannah. “I remember you. The Becket princess, is that right?”

Hannah smiles, stepping away from Dean’s side to greet him. “Yes, sir. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“And that one? Those two look cozy, don’t they?” Dean jumps when he realizes Reginald is pointing at him and Charlie.

“What? Us? No, no, we’re just friends—” He takes his arm from around Charlie as she does the same, stepping away and wrinkling her nose like it’s the worst thought in the world to be dating him.

“I’d watch out for that one,” Reginald tells Castiel, raising a white eyebrow in distaste, and humiliation sinks Dean’s stomach, making him feel a little sick. “Cuddling up with others while courting _you_. Ha!” He throws up both hands, looking disgusted by the thought of it—or just by Dean in general.

Dean shrinks into himself, backing away, out of sight of the judgemental old man. And, to make it worse, Castiel doesn’t say a word—he doesn’t even look Dean’s way.

He doesn’t think… No, he can’t _possibly_ believe Dean would…? But, then again, he doesn’t know the truth about Charlie, either, so maybe he does think it?

But how could he think so _low _of Dean? How could he ever—

They’re each given a basket and told to fill it, then let loose into the trees. Dean wanders off, determined not to let some crotchety old goat ruin this day for him, and tries to ignore the twisting in his stomach as he watches Castiel disappear into the rows with April and Sarah, smiling at whatever it is they’re saying like they're the most fascinating people in the world.

“How fast do you think I can fill this thing and go back? That apple cider looked damn good.” Charlie hardly even looks at the apples before tossing them in her basket, filling the bottom within minutes.

Dean examines the smooth red flesh, taking it in his hand and feeling for bruises before twisting it from the branch. He sets each apple down with care, wanting to keep them in as good a shape as he can for baking later.

“You don’t want to take your time?” Dean asks, walking a little further down the row as he breathes in the clean, cool air. It’s not like this in the village, and he swears the amount of oxygen is like a drug, lulling him into a calm, peaceful state—one he never wants to leave.

“Hell no! I’m freezing my ass off over here, and it’s not like I don’t do this twice a year anyway—it isn't new to me, you know?” Her voice fades as Dean goes further, but she doesn’t follow, making good on her statement and filling her basket with the first fruit her fingers fall on before heading back to the cabin.

Then he’s alone in the vastness of the orchard. It’s quiet, though—peaceful in a way that most things connected to the royal family aren’t—and he loses track of time with every row he walks, and every apple he picks. He hardly notices when the sun starts to dip in the sky, painting it in striking reds and golds. Minutes pass—hours, maybe—but his bucket fills slowly as the crickets titter in the grass and the songbirds tuck in for the night. Still, Dean wanders on. 

“Dean!”

His head snaps up as his heart leaps into his throat. The voice is far off, but worried, and it sends a trickle of unease down his spine.

“Here!” he shouts back, and the sound of thudding footsteps follows. Dean waits beside the apple tree he’d been scouring for fruit, still holding his perfect apple in hand, until the footsteps reach him.

Castiel steps out from behind the trees, panting and sweating, followed by a guard. “You had us worried,” Castiel huffs, but the relief is clear in his smile as he steps closer.

“Is it… is it time to go back?” He looks down at his half-full basket, disappointment trickling in as he places his last apple on top of the rest.

“No,” Castiel says, even as the guard says _yes_. “No, we can finish filling your basket; the others are warm and happy for now.” Castiel lifts a gloved hand like he’s about to touch Dean’s cheek, but drops it almost immediately with a sigh. “I hope you don’t mind if I help? I didn’t get the chance to fill my own, and Braeburns are my favorite of the fall harvest.”

“Please,” Dean says, waving to the basket. “You know more about them than me, so yeah, go ahead.” Castiel smiles, and in the low, golden light, he looks heavenly. “What’s a Braeburn?” Dean asks, instead of staring at Castiel like a love-sick idiot, and examines another rosy-red apple as a distraction.

“This,” Castiel says, holding up an apple he’d just plucked from the tree. Its light red skin is streaked with hints of green and yellow, but all Dean sees is a regular apple like any other. “They’re excellent for applesauce, and I make _fantastic _applesauce.”

“Is that right?” Dean lifts an eyebrow when Castiel grins. “And the other apples? What’re they good for?”

Castiel shrugs, setting the fruit down in Dean’s basket, as gently as he had for each of the others. “Some are the same. Rome apples are too mild for sauce, but they are good for eating and baking. You have some—they’re the deep red ones near the bottom.”

“Huh,” Dean muses, fascinated by the new knowledge. Who knew apples were so different? “What about this one?” He plucks up a pinkish apple from one side, ignoring the way the guard sighs a few trees back.

“That,” Castiel says, placing another apple in the basket. “Is called a _pink lady_.” He wiggles his eyebrows in the most awkward way, but it has Dean throwing his head back as a laugh bursts from his chest.

The chill in the air is starting to get to him, nipping at his nose and numbing his fingers, but he doesn’t think there’s anything in the world that could get him to go back early. This time with Castiel is precious—it reminds him that his is the only opinion that matters in this process—and no, there isn’t anything he’d trade it for.

“So, what’re you going to bake?” Dean asks instead of spilling his thoughts. They wander further in, to a different section of trees—these hosting what he knows to be Granny Smith apples.

“Hm,” Castiel hums as he strokes a finger over the yellow stripe on an otherwise completely red apple before setting it in the basket and twisting a perfect, bright green apple from a branch. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had an apple turnover. Perhaps I’ll make some of those, or maybe danishes…” A pensive look washes over his face as his eyebrows come together and he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. Then he grins, wide and playful when he looks over at Dean. “You will make a pie, I’m sure.”

Dean scoffs, but he can feel the smile tugging at his lips even as he tries to look offended. “You think you know me that well, Novak?”

“Am I wrong?” Castiel advances fast, coming toe to toe with Dean, who stumbles back until he hits a tree, dropping the three-quarters full basket at his feet.

Dean’s breath catches in his throat, his heart skipping several beats before taking off in a sprint as a mix of shock, confusion, and pleasure surges through him.

Castiel braces one hand against the tree trunk, bringing them close as he waves off the guard with the other. They’re practically nose to nose and the scent of honey-sunshine is overlaid with warm apple cider and winter frost. Every breath brings them closer together, and Castiel’s eyelids lower, his lashes fanning out in a dark, sweeping shadow as his breaths whisper over Dean’s lips.

“Am I wrong, Winchester?” The gloved fingers of his free hand graze over Dean’s stubbled cheek—the only point of contact between them—and all the air in Dean’s lungs sighs out of him. “I do know you,” he says, leaning ever closer and sending shivers down Dean’s spine.

Dean closes his eyes as a lump rises in his throat, so many feelings mixing to bring a swell of emotion to the forefront, so overwhelmingly powerful, they leave him shaking, and wanting, and _aching_ for his prince.

Castiel’s lips move to his ear, breathing out his words in the softest voice. “Perhaps not as well as I’d like to, but I know who you are.”

Dean feels every syllable like a caress, and he can’t help but think Castiel’s referring to the accusations Reginald threw at him earlier. He’s reassuring him—letting Dean know he understands. Every breath tells Dean he trusts him, and that he respects him enough to never question his intentions.

Relief melts through him and he realizes even Castiel’s closeness is a form of trust. A shiver makes its way down Dean’s spine, and he’d like to say it’s not from the cold, but honestly, it mostly _is_.

Castiel steps back, letting his fingers linger on Dean’s cheek for a moment as the deep blue of his eyes grows even darker in the low light. Castiel sighs when he drops his hands. “We should finish up.”

“We should,” Dean agrees, but his voice shakes a little, and so do his hands when he picks up his basket. He’s so goddamn worked up he can hardly think straight, so when Castiel takes his hand, twining their fingers together, he just about jumps out of his skin.

Castiel drops his hand immediately, his eyebrows furrowing with concern, but Dean refuses to meet his eyes as he rubs a hand over his face. “Is that not okay?” Castiel whispers, and even if he’s trying to hide it, Dean can hear the hurt in his voice.

“What? No, Cas, it’s okay, you just…” He trails off, taking a deep, steadying breath. “You startled me, is all.”

“Oh,” Castiel says, nodding as he looks down at Dean’s free hand before holding out his own. Dean’s breath catches again, but he takes it.

_God, Winchester, pull yourself together! He’s just holding your hand!_

“My nanny used to bake with me all the time, you know?” Castiel says after a moment of heavy silence. “She passed away last year, but every time I bake anything now, I think of her.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean glances over at him, smiling, but doesn’t push for more as he waits for Castiel to continue.

“She made the best apple fritters I’ve ever tasted, and for my birthday, we would sneak down to the kitchens late at night and make honey-nut cookies.” His smile turns fond, if a little sad, and Dean squeezes his fingers in a way that’s meant to be reassuring, though he’s not sure it quite has that effect. “What about you?” Castiel asks after a moment, turning to Dean with a smile. “How did you get into baking?”

Dean stops to pick a few more apples off the trees. It’s a bit awkward with one hand but he refuses to let go of Castiel’s, and his prince doesn’t seem all that willing to let him go, either.

“Back before my grandparents died, and we still had some support from them, my Grandma Deanna would come over on holidays—she’d bring all the ingredients, and I’d pull out every cake pan, muffin tin, and pie dish we owned.” Dean laughs at the memory, picturing his four-year-old self balancing on a stool with flour in his hair and cherry pie filling on his nose. “She’d make me pick one, and it was always pie, but never the same kind twice. She died just before my fifth birthday, and my parents couldn’t afford much after that—I haven’t baked a proper pie in years.”

Castiel stops, picking an apple from a tree and staring at it for a moment. With the sun almost gone from the sky, his face is cast in shadow, but Dean still sees the smile on his lips as he turns the apple in his palm.

Then he sinks his teeth into the ripe fruit, startling Dean with the crisp crunch as he chews, looking at the deep blue sky with a million thoughts in his mind.

“Are you allowed to do that?” Dean asks, the shock clear in his voice, but Castiel just shrugs.

“It’s my orchard, so I suppose I am.” Then he grins, holding out his bitten apple, untouched side towards Dean. “Would you like some?”

With numb, mittened fingers, Dean takes the ripe, bitten fruit and brings it to his lips. He pauses as he meets Castiel’s eyes, then sinks his teeth into the fruit, and God, it’s sweet. The juices fill his mouth as he chews, dropping his eyes to the twice bitten apple before handing it back.

“It’s good,” he whispers, butterflies fluttering in his stomach as Castiel opens his mouth to speak.

“Your highness,” the guard says, stepping forward from between the dark trees and cutting Castiel all. “It is getting late, perhaps we should start making our way back?”

For the first time since they got out here, Dean looks back at the guard, and even though his jacket looks thick and warm, he’s obviously shivering—his fingers and toes are probably numb, and his nose glows red with cold.

“We haven’t finished filling the basket yet,” Castiel tells him. “We will go back when—” Dean cuts Castiel off.

“We can fill it on the way,” he says, tugging on Castiel’s hand. “What’s your name?”

“Benjamin, sir.” Benjamin folds his hands in front of him and bows his head.

“Benjamin, would you mind helping us fill the basket?” Dean smiles at the man, hoping he’s not overstepping, but Castiel doesn’t speak up to tell him no, so he figures it’s probably okay.

“Mr. Winchester, I—” He looks between Dean and Castiel, his mouth open as he struggles to find the right answer. “I don’t—I don’t know if… if it’s acceptable for me to—”

“Of course, it is. Thank you, Benjamin,” Castiel cuts in, giving Benjamin a smile of his own, though it’s far more reserved and professional than the one he gives to Dean.

Benjamin smiles and gets to work, finding the best apples so that Dean and Castiel barely have to do any work at all. They carry the basket between them, though, and Dean’s more than a little disappointed when that means he has to let go of Castiel’s hand, but he makes up for it in conversation.

They joke and laugh the entire walk back, talking about everything and nothing as Dean falls more and more in love with him. Even with the class barrier, which he feels like a physical wall between them, he can’t help but think maybe it could work—if he knew for sure how Castiel feels, maybe he could let himself fall completely.

The soft glow through the cabin windows draws them in and when they break from the trees, Castiel turns to Benjamin. “If you could take this to the car, that would be wonderful. We’ll be fine here, thank you.”

Then they’re alone, their hands-free to hold, but neither making the first move. Dean can’t help wondering why Castiel doesn’t, and his mind runs a little wild with it until Castiel speaks, cutting off his train of thought with his deep, gravelly voice.

“Do you remember the first time we met?” Castiel doesn’t look at him, but all Dean can do is stare. Of course, he does—it wasn’t even three weeks ago.

“Officially at dinner on the first night? Or in the bathroom when you fixed my camera makeup?” The wind starts to pick up a bit and a shiver has Dean wrapping his arms around himself to ward off the chill.

Castiel smiles—just a sad little up-turn of his lips—and sighs as he shakes his head. “That’s a _no_, then.”

“What?” Confusion hits Dean so hard his head shoots back as his face pinches up. He wracks his brain for another meeting over the last three weeks, but none come to mind.

“Never mind,” Castiel whispers, but he doesn’t look angry when his eyes meet Dean’s—just a bit disappointed. “We should go.”

Then Castiel’s hand slips into his and Dean’s confusion scatters in the wind, replaced by the warmth of a feeling he can only describe as _home_.

“Aprons are on the hooks. Make sure to wash your hands and tie back your hair—watch out for each other and _don’t _make a mess.”

Dean keeps to the back of the group, unnoticed by Frank, who leads them into the kitchen via the main entrance as everyone either ties their hair back, or pulls a hairnet over their heads, or both.

He’s not paying attention, too busy fitting the hairnet over his ears in a way that doesn’t chafe when the chatter of the other chefs cuts out.

“Hey! Look who it is!”

“Mr. Dusty is back! Watch your flour!”

Dean blushes hard and fast, sure he’s as dark as his mom’s beet stew, but he smiles anyway, more than a little embarrassed as they pull him forward by both hands.

“Should we call you Mr. Snowman, or will Dusty do?” Frank asks, finally noticing him within the crowd and clasping his hand.

“Dean, will be fine,” he says, an awkward, forced chuckle spilling out of him. “Don’t forget those two.” Dean points to Jo and Kelly, who hardly notice anything but Castiel, who watches Dean’s interactions with interest. “That one tossed it on me.”

“Now, don’t be blaming the pretty ladies,” a short, dark-haired woman says, her flushed cheeks pushed up in a smile. “You clumsy boy.”

“Yeah, well, one of you told Susie and got me in shit,” Dean laughs, a little easier this time, and ties his apron around his back in case of any more flour incidents. “That woman is mean. I love her to death, but she’s _mean_.”

Frank slaps him on the shoulder, ignoring the other suitors as they try to listen in, and steers Dean around to his own little section of the stainless-steel workstation. “That's my sister-in-law, you know?”

Dean flushes, stammering like an idiot, but presses on when Frank doesn’t stop smiling. “Yeah, well, then you must know.”

“That I do, boy—that I do. Right here is your place, and your apples are in the sink behind you.” He points to the stainless-steel basin against the wall and Dean’s basket of apples. “Recipes are in the book, and all the tools you’ll need are in the drawers or under the workstation.”

“Thanks, Frank.”

Anytime, boy.” Then he’s gone—back to his nightly prep—and when Dean looks up, he finds Castiel watching them, the tiniest of smiles on his lips.

“How’s your pie doing?”

Dean’s jerked from his thoughts by Charlie's voice in his ear and looks up as she leans against the wall beside him. “It’s fine,” he says, knowing it is based on the smell and the fact that the timer hasn’t gone off yet. “How’s your applesauce?”

“Come, and gone, and digesting as we speak.” She grins, patting her apron covered stomach.

Dean’s stripped down to his t-shirt, much like most of the others, and is dusted in more flour than not. It’s been a good time, even if Kelly did slice the top layer of skin off her finger while peeling her apples, too busy ogling Castiel to pay attention.

Speaking of the prince…

Castiel hasn’t spoken to him even once. He’s made his way around to everyone _but _Dean, and now he’s across the kitchen, smiling with Sarah and as he helps her roll out the top of her pie shell so it fits over the excess of apples.

Dean’s stomach turns at the sight of his indulgent smile, and the way he helps her press down the edges. The fact that Sarah’s beyond beautiful, even sweating, covered in flour, with her hair tucked into a hairnet, doesn’t make it better, either.

Yeah, he’s pouting, but he doesn’t care, and all he wants is to know what he did wrong? Why doesn’t Castiel want to talk to him? To check up on his pie that he was so _sure_ Dean would make?

“How’s Hannah making out?” Dean asks Charlie, instead, deciding a distraction is best for everyone involved.

“Her apple swans are perfect and I hate her for it,” Charlie sighs, crossing her arms over her chest. “That girl is too delicate for her own good—no one should be able to carve _apple swans_.”

Dean laughs. “She’s a royal; what else is she supposed to do with her time?” Dean pushes off the wall and peeks through the window at his pie, heat seeping through to heat his forehead and make sweat bead at his hairline—not quite golden enough yet, but soon. “Why don’t you go challenge her to a swan-off since you refuse to bake with the rest of your apples?”

“Not a bad idea, actually.” She tilts her head to the side, looking thoughtful and ignoring the dig all at the same time as Dean rolls his eyes. She nods, slapping his bare, sweaty arm. “Thanks, Winchester.”

Dean smiles, his gaze wandering back to Castiel and Sarah, but the instant he finds them, he wishes he’d kept his eyes to the floor. The blue-edged, pristine white envelope Castiel pulls from his jacket catches Dean’s attention, and a stab of jealously pierces his heart.

Or maybe it’s just pain, but either way, he’s sick with it, and he wrenches the oven door open for something to look at rather than the smile on Castiel’s face—no matter if his pie is finished or not.

What did he do wrong? He must have done _something_, but what? He ducks his head, feeling the burn of inadequacy in his throat, the same as he has all this time, and all his life thus far.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on Twitter at [allmystars_i](https://twitter.com/allmystars_i)  
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	20. WEEK THREE - Friday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone else participating in the one-day GISH hunt? That's what I'll be doing today, but here's this in case you aren't. Or even if you are, whatever.
> 
> It's kind of weird writing these chapters ahead of time because I'll write something and then post a chapter I wrote a week before, then I'm confused when y'all are commenting on things that aren't what I just wrote lol. I've never done scheduled serial posting so it's a bit to get used to.
> 
> It was pointed out to me earlier that the number of suitors is inconsistent (my fault) but then I went back to fix it and discovered I forgot to update the ENTIRE first chapter to fit the lengthened story, so now that's done and the number of suitors SHOULD be consistent throughout, but if you get confused in any other place, let me know and I'll fix it.
> 
> Also, guess what I did Wednesday? OUTLINED TWO MORE CHAPTERS! At first, I thought they wouldn't be needed, and I couldn't think of anything, but now there will be at least 79 chapters, oops. (Plus, whatever timestamps I decide to do.)
> 
> Anyway, let me know what you like, don't like, or any thoughts you have! I love reading your thoughts on what will happen next.

“So, Dean,” Kelly says at breakfast, resting her chin on her palm and her elbow on the table as she leans forward, a charming smile on her face. “How did _you _manage to get first place on the fan-favorites list?”

With his mouth full, all Dean can do is pop his head up and raise an eyebrow until he swallows. He doesn't really give it much thought, but answers anyway. “My charming wit?” He shrugs. “Pretty face?”

From beside Castiel’s empty seat, Meg speaks up, “I’d say he paid them off if I didn’t know he’s dirt poor.”

“Aw, Meg, you should know the viewers can’t be paid off, or you would’ve been higher up on the list,” Dean says with a smirk, leaning forward in his chair to meet her eyes across the table as her face pinches and she sneers her disgust.

“Maybe it’s because he’s different?” Sarah muses, watching Dean from a few seats down with nothing but curiosity in her eyes. Dean looks down at his plate, tired of their questioning already, and shovels fluffy scrambled eggs into his mouth. He's starving despite the late-night snack from yesterday—he'd eaten his whole apple pie in one sitting, too upset with his own jealousy to notice until the pie-tin was scraped clean.

“Oh, come on—it’s because he’s one of them. They want the underdog to win to prove they _can_.” Michael’s voice is cold and detached—not nearly as full of malice as Meg’s, but Dean would say that’s just because he doesn’t care.

Charlie drops into the empty chair beside Dean, pulling her plate closer. “Or_ maybe_, it’s because the people of Amarellino know the stench of shit in rich clothing when they _smell _it.”

“Says number five,” Meg snarls, looking down her nose at Charlie, but her satisfaction dissipates as soon as Charlie opens her mouth again.

“Better than seven,” Charlie bites back, flashing a toothy grin across the table. “Besides, it doesn’t matter who the fan-favorite is—it’s the _prince_ who's favorite you want to be.”

Meg shuts her mouth after that, but the pit in Dean’s stomach only grows as the others carry on, trying to figure out how to be more well-liked than him.

“It’s their privilege, Dean,” Hannah whispers in his ear, her tone pleading with him to understand, but he doesn’t look up from his plate. “It doesn’t allow them to hear their own rudeness.”

Dean barely hears her, and even though he knows she’s right, he hates that she can excuse them so quickly. A lack of human decency shouldn’t be allowed for any amount of money.

“How about some training, huh?” Charlie bounds along beside Dean, leaning close to smell the daisies as they wander through the flowerbeds towards the barracks. Well, that's where Charlie's headed—Dean's just walking.

“Don’t feel like it,” Dean tells her. His suit feels too tight, and the air, too thick in his lungs. It’s like he’s being strangled from the inside, out, and he _refuses _to tell her why. He knows, of course—Castiel is on his date with Sarah—and despite his reluctance to admit it to Charlie, it’s all he can think about.

“What _do _you want to do?” The breezy blue sundress she’s sporting flows around her calves, her hair done in curls and pinned to the side of her head. She looks lovely, and Dean really should tell her so, but he knows she’d just hit him for his efforts.

“Honestly, Char? I want to be alone.” He’s terrible company right now, and he doesn’t want to bring her down with his mood. She’s better off joining Hannah and going to see Dorothy on her own.

She stops her spinning, facing Dean with a look in her eyes he doesn’t quite like. “It’s got to be hard,” she says, no hint of teasing in her voice. Dean waits as she studies his face, her keen eyes not missing a thing, though he’s isn't really making an effort to hide from her. “I can’t tell you I understand because I don’t, but I can imagine it, you know? Loving someone you can’t have all to yourself.”

“It’s not—”

“Yes, it is,” she says, cutting him off and giving him a small, sad smile. “It is about him—I know you better than that, Winchester.”

“Fine,” Dean huffs, rolling his eyes to the slate-grey sky. Clouds move in faster than he thought they would, but rain is still a ways off. “I think I’m just going to take a walk in the woods for a while—I’ll find you before dinner, okay?”

Thankfully, she decides not to argue. He doesn’t think he has the strength to fight her on it—he’s just so tired.

“Alright, but make sure you find me before you head in. I’ll be in the barracks until just before dinner—don’t forget.” Dean nods and she spins on her heel, jogging away with all the energy Dean lacks, and he heads for the trees.

He didn’t sleep last night, too upset to shut his mind off and with the worst stomach-ache he's had since he was a kid. The ache in his stomach only grows every minute he’s here, but he can’t leave—that’d only make his pain stronger.

He stops just inside the tree line. He doesn’t want to be here—it’s too loud. There are too many people around, and walking will only make him more exhausted.

Dean turns back to face the palace, catching sight of a turret rising high in the sky, and a sliver of longing draws him there. He wants to be near Castiel in the only way he can be while his prince is away.

He should be back in plenty of time for dinner, and he tells himself he won’t be caught—he has the pass, after all—so Charlie doesn’t need to know. Castiel asked him to keep it between them anyway, and he doesn’t plan on breaking that promise.

The sound of his footsteps rings in his ears, up the grand staircase where he runs his fingers on over the polished wood banister—the stained-glass doesn’t shine today, with the sun shrouded by clouds.

When he reaches the steps to the double doors marked by the _Restricted _sign, he pulls out his golden ticket, clutching it in his fist and praying he doesn’t have to use it.

But the only steps echoing in the halls of the royal quarters are his own, all the way to the ruby-encrusted urn, where he knows to turn.

The tension eases from his bones when he reaches the wooden door, and he heaves a sigh when it closes behind him. There’s a sense of calm in the dull, grey light that cuts across the stone steps as he ascends, and even as he pants for breath, going round and round as he kicks up dust, the air is easier to breathe in here.

This is a place for him and Castiel, and just knowing that puts his mind at ease. 

Sweat dots his temples and dampens his hair by the time he reaches the last step. It slides down his spine and his shirt cleans to his damp chest, but the door opens for him with barely a nudge, and once inside, he shuts it with a firm hand.

All the air rushes from his lungs and the buzz of tension melts from him on a sigh at finally being alone. He breathes deep, inhaling the soothing scent of old paper and worn leather, faded honey-sunshine soap, and stale air. The rainbow room is almost exactly as he remembers it, though the lights aren’t as bright and there’s a book on the table by the door that wasn’t there before.

Dean picks it up, flipping to the marked page, and reads the first few lines. He doesn’t recognize it and there’s no title on the binding, so he sets it aside, not wanting to lose Castiel’s place by accident.

Even in the comfort of this quiet sanctuary, exhaustion weighs on him, and the gut-wrenching pain of loneliness sucks the life from his bones. He’s just so tired, and the pile of blankets and cushions is the most inviting thing he’s ever seen.

Dean grabs a book from the shelves at random before kicking off his shoes and lowering himself to the soft, down pillows. He tosses his jacket aside, the beige fabric landing out of sight, but Dean doesn’t care—he contents himself in the warmth of the small room, his heart beating steady and calm for the first time in days.

Dean sighs, lying back in the cushions and closing his eyes. He breathes deep, and finds that the cushions smell even more like honey and sunshine—he turns his face into a pillow, then rolls, burying himself in the comfort of his prince.

Dean pulls a blanket around his shoulders, tugging it over his knees, and for a moment, he just lies there, trying not to feel the time between now and the end of ten weeks like the chasm it is. It feels like forever, but not nearly long enough to ever _be_ enough for him, and those weeks aren’t even guaranteed.

In a way, he wants it to be over—to know how it all turns out—but the chance that Castiel might not choose him makes him want live in this moment forever and never leave the safety of his rainbow room.

After a moment, Dean sits up, the blanket pooling in his lap, and scans the bookshelf beside his head for something to read, settling on Bram Stoker’s _Dracula_.

Dean lets his eyes fall to the first line, reading the words with absent interest. “_Jonathan Harker’s Journal. 3 May. Bistritz. —Left Munich at 8:35 P. M…_”

He’s not sure how long he reads for, and he’s even less sure how long he sleeps for when his eyes do eventually close, but when he’s woken by feet thumping up the steps beyond the wooden door, it’s dark inside the rainbow room.

He turns his face into the warmth of the pillow beneath his head, groaning softly, but not nearly awake enough to register the door opening across the room.

“Oh, thank God,” a voice whispers, and it sounds suspiciously like Castiel, but Dean’s warm, and comfortable, and too tired to open his eyes and see. “Dean?” Castiel pants out, closer this time, then fingers push their way through Dean’s tangled hair. “Dean, wake up.”

Dean groans again, louder this time as he scowls and turns away. He’s _tired_ and _comfortable_—he doesn’t want to wake up. Not even for Castiel.

“Come on, wake up.” Castiel’s fingers shake when they glide over Dean’s cheekbone, down to his stubbled jaw, before snaking around to the back of his head and resting there.

He peels one eye open, scowling at the shadowed face of his prince as he smiles down at him, relief flooding in to drown the panic Dean can see waning in his eyes. “What time is it?” Dean croaks, rolling over and looking around the room for a clock. He rubs both hands over his aching eyes before tossing the blanket aside, untangling it from around his legs.

“Why is it always you?” Castiel asks, half laughing as he smiles and lowers himself down beside Dean, one hand still in his hair. His voice shakes, too, and Dean doesn't understand why, but he watches the storm of emotions on the prince's face go from fear to relief, to something close to annoyance, before settling on exhaustion for the time being. “Getting yourself misplaced, or disappearing without a trace—the whole palace has been searching for you for hours.”

“Hours?” Dean’s head pops up again as his eyes catch on Castiel’s. “Cas, what time is it?”

“Past seven. Benny told me you were seen entering the woods, but after that…” He shrugs, a shiver running down Castiel’s spine as a shadow of dread darkens his eyes. “Nothing. You were gone, just like that.”

Dean’s heart thuds against his rib cage and he reaches out a hand when Castiel’s voice catches but draws it back almost immediately. “I’m right here,” he whispers, brushing gentle fingers over the hand still holding the back of his head. “I’ve been right here all this time, and I’m _fine_, Cas.”

For a long moment, all Castiel does is stare with those crystalline eyes, searching for something Dean doesn't understand. But then he clears his throat and tears his gaze away.

"We should go before the soldiers start their march. No need to scare the villagers now that you've been found." Castiel pushes himself up, straightening his suit, and in an instant, he's the prince again—strong and capable and reserved. "Get dressed, and if you wouldn't mind, could you re-shelf the book? It's a first edition."

Dean sits up, confused by the abrupt shift in Castiel's mood, but he snatches up the book before it can slide off the cushions to the wood floor. "I'm sorry," Dean says, though he's sure Castiel doesn't hear it, and tucks the book back into its place before clambering to his feet and scanning the floor for his jacket and shoes.

"Here," Castiel says, holding out Dean's jacket, but when he reaches out to take it, Castiel pulls it away.

Dean frowns—what's he doing? But when Castiel drags his eyes up from the floor to meet Dean's, all his confusion flees, replaced with genuine concern.

"I know I asked you not to mention this place to anyone, but Dean..." Castiel trails off as he shakes his head, the haunted look in his eyes only serving to scare Dean more. "You can't just disappear." The words fall from his lips in a broken whisper, taking all the air in the room and sharpening it—turning it cold and painful to breathe. "They told me you were missing and I just—"

Dean lets his hand fall to his side as Castiel clears his throat. He takes a step forward, resisting the urge to take the jacket from Castiel's clenched fist and soothe the tension in him. "Cas, I'm _fine_. See?" He holds his hands out to both sides, showing Castiel just how unharmed he is. "I'm not in trouble. I'm not hurt—Cas, I'm _okay_."

"_This _time," he says, the conviction on his voice like a slap in the face. "You're okay _this _time. We overreacted _this time_." Dean scowls, but before he can respond, Castiel takes a step forward, poking a finger into Dean's chest as his expression turns fierce. "I care for you, as I do for all my suitors, but Dean, if something were to happen... What then?" Dean's heart stutters in his chest at the fire he sees in his prince's eyes. "But what about _next _time? What about next time when I get—"

Dean's breath catches, his heart sinking when he sees the tears welling in Castiel's eyes. The tremor in his voice is bad enough, but the _tears _break his heart.

"What about when it's not an overaction, Dean? What do I do when you're gone? What then?"

Guilt and shame flood Dean in equal measures, though he's not sure why. By all accounts, this is an _extreme _overreaction by everyone involved, unless there's something they're not telling him?

Dean stares into Castiel's watery blue eyes, the cogs turning as he examines the tightness in his jaw—the tension in every fiber of his being as he drops his hand back to his side—and, yeah, there's something Castiel doesn't want him to know.

"What is it?" Dean asks, tilting his head to the side as Castiel's tears slip free, leaving tracks down his cheeks which he refuses to wipe away. "What's happened that's got you so afraid?"

"I'm not afraid," Castiel says in a shaky whisper, and it feels like an automatic response, but it's plain on his face for anyone to see, and Dean isn't a blind man.

"Don't lie to me, prince; I know you better than that." Dean takes another step forward until they're barely inches apart. He frees his jacket from Castiel's hand, never taking his eyes off those shining blues as he slips it on.

Then, with a deliberation he rarely has in anything he does, he brings his hands up to Castiel's cheeks, taking them in both palms when he doesn't pull away.

Castiel stands still as stone, jaw tight, and eyes locked in place, but the tears continue to fall. He doesn't move, or speak, or appear to even breathe, but when Dean's skin touches his cheeks, they're hot with the red flush darkening them.

So often when they're together, Dean is acutely aware of the power difference—the _class _difference—between them, but here, it's all but gone. Dean is Castiel's equal, in comfort and command, as it should be.

His heart beats steady as he rubs his thumbs over the tear-tracks, brushing them away as Castiel looks at him like he's the only person in the world. It's weird for Dean to be the strong one this time, but he can take the weight of Castiel's fear. He can hold it in the palms of his hands—gently, like it's the most precious thing—and carry it when Castiel can't. He can do that for him, and more than that, he _wants _to do that for him.

"My prince... I'm okay, and I'm here, and nothing bad has happened to me or the others. We're okay." He offers Castiel a smile—just a barely-there twitch of his lips—but it seems to offer him some kind of comfort.

The last of his tears fall, collecting in the spaces between Dean's fingers where he can wipe them away, and a shuddering breath whooshes out of him. He brings his own hands up to rest over Dean's, his cold fingers pressing into the warmth of Deans'.

"You deserve the very best this life has to offer," Castiel whispers with so much pain brimming in his eyes.

Dean doesn't miss a beat. "You _are _the very best this life has to offer." And he means it, with every fiber of his being, he _means _it.

Castiel smiles, small and sad, as he takes Dean's hands from his cheeks, letting his fingers linger on Dean's until they're out of reach, and he wipes his cheeks clear of any evidence of his vulnerability.

"We should inform the others that you've been found. Come." He turns away, hurrying for the door and not even waiting for Dean to find his shoes before he's in the stairwell.

Dean takes his time, knowing Castiel needs a moment, and makes sure to tie his laces and straighten the cushions before stepping from the room.

His heart warms when he finds Castiel just on the other side, eyes to the floor, and the slightest flush on his cheeks. "I'm sorry," he whispers, ducking his head further in shame. "That was rude of me; I should have waited for you."

"Don't worry about it," Dean says. How could he be mad at the man in front of him? With his hair a wicked mess and his eyes puffy and bloodshot, how could he _possibly _feel anything but sad with him? "Sometimes, I think you're too selfless for your own good. Here," he says, taking a step down to meet him and running his fingers through the dark mess of tangles without a thought.

Castiel sucks in a sharp breath through his nose, his eyes falling shut as Dean smoothes his fingers through the soft strands, laying them flat as best he can.

When he's finished, Castiel's eyelids flutter, then open, and his lips part on a sigh. "Dean, can I..." His eyes flick around the stairwell as Dean's interest peaks, and he tilts his head. "Can I hold your hand?"

For a moment, Dean's too shocked to answer, and Castiel must take it as a refusal because he drops his head and turns away, muttering an apology under his breath.

Dean snatches up his hand before he gets too far, and when Castiel's eyes meet his, questioning and uncertain, he smiles. "Of course, Cas. _Of course_, I'll hold your hand. For as long as you'll let me."

Castiel smiles but turns away, worry, and the tiniest bit of annoyance, still plaguing the lines of his face as he leads Dean down the steps, and he's not sure if it's directed at him or not, but their hands remain a tether between them.

"Oh my God, _Dean_!" Hannah spins on her heel, worry turning into relief, and she rushes up to him, throwing her arms around his neck. "We were so worried! Where were you?"

Dean looks back at Castiel, who meets his eyes, holding steady and silently telling him not to give anything away. Yeah, like he's about to do _that_. "Around. I wasn't hiding, you know?" He holds her away from him as she frets, straightening his wrinkled suit and flattening his hair where Castiel had his fingers tangled in it. He almost wishes she wouldn't bother. "I took a nap."

Castiel huffs out a laugh as his steps echo through the grand entrance, and Dean watches his quiet conversation with Benny, probably telling him to call off the search-party, before Benny nods and hurries away.

"You took a _nap_?" Hannah snaps, and Dean blinks at the bite in her tone, his head shooting back as he scowls. She's never spoken to him like that and he pulls away from her, put off by the accusation in her eyes.

"Yeah, I fell asleep; I was tired." He shrugs, watching her grow more and more agitated by the second. What's the big deal, anyway? Castiel was just as weird, but it's not the first time he's wandered off on his own—what's with all the commotion?

"If you will excuse us, Hannah," Castiel says, interrupting the roiling anger burning in her cheeks and puffing up her chest—about to explode. "I will take Dean back to his room; he needs to eat dinner and get ready for tonight, as do you."

He leads Dean away before she has a chance to speak, leaving her gawping after them, and when Dean dares to look back, she's beet red. What the hell? What's her problem? It's not like he promised _her _that he'd find her before dinner, and even then, he doubts it warrants that level of anger.

"What's her problem?" Dean asks when they're a safe distance away, but Castiel doesn't look over at him, and Dean gets the feeling he's a little pissed too. "And you—what's _your _problem?" He regrets the words as soon as they're out of his mouth, but Castiel doesn't so much as twitch.

"Nothing that concerns you."

Anger pickles in Dean's stomach, boiling hotter with every second that passes without a proper answer. "If you're pissed at me, I think it fucking _does _concern me."

He stops, leaving Castiel to walk a few steps ahead, but he doesn't care. He's angry and more than a little upset at being left in the dark, but when Castiel whips around, he sinks into himself a little, hating the way the harsh angles of his face and the burn of fury in his eyes scares him a little.

His voice is low and steady when he speaks, keeping the shake of anger under control as he steps closer to Dean, authority in every movement, but that just pisses him off more. "You will be consulted about issues concerning the safety of the suitors when it is _prudent _and not a moment sooner. You will not leave your room past dark, and if you must, there will be a guard stationed outside your door to escort you around the palace."

The words are clipped and formal, but Dean's roaring mad now, and he grits his teeth to let the _prince _finish.

"Until then, be sure to let my guards know of your whereabouts at all times, no matter what—"

"No," Dean says, cutting him off, and Castiel's head pops up as shock fills his eyes.

"Excuse me?"

"_No_," Dean says, clearer this time, and takes a step closer. "If you're going to get all pissy with me, and _Hannah_ is allowed to know and be pissy with me, then I better fucking know why, too." Castiel stands there, shocked into silence, his mouth hanging open and his eyebrows practically in his hairline. "I don't care if you're the Crown Prince, Cas—you don't get to treat me like a child, or like I'm too stupid to understand whatever it is you're not telling me."

He leaves before he can dig himself any deeper, and Castiel doesn't follow, but as the anger seeps out of him, dread sinks in, hollowing out the pit of his stomach. He wants to run back—to apologize and beg for forgiveness—but he's not sorry, and he meant every word.

Dean keeps going until his bedroom door is at his back and he crumbles to the floor—eyes closed and head in his hands.

What did he just do?

"Hannah," Castiel says from his place at the front of the room, a sapphire rose in his hands and a smile on his lips as Hannah steps forward and accepts her rose.

Dean's hands shake, dread making him sick to his stomach because Castiel hasn't so much as glanced his way since he stepped in the room.

After their argument, Dean had been rushed through his shower and shave—he's pretty sure Susie knicked his jaw, but she denies it, and will to her dying breath. The whole time, all he could think about is how bad he fucked up. He's not sure if he'll be sent home for it—God, he hopes not—but how is he to know what Castiel will do?

More than anything, it makes him realize how much they don't know about each other yet, and how much he still _wants _to get to know Castiel.

Only three roses left—him, Jo, and Kelly are the only ones not holding one. Jo looks confident, and Kelly, bored, but her head pops up when Castiel says her name.

"Kelly."

She smiles wide, stepping down from the platform with a skip in her step, and Dean's heart drops to his shoes. What are the chances of him getting the last rose three weeks in a row? _Especially_ after his fight with Castiel.

"Kelly, will you accept this rose?" Castiel smiles, though not as wide as he did with Hannah, and Kelly lets out a bubbly giggle, taking the rose before she even says _yes_.

"The final rose," Duma says as she steps forward, then steps back, and Dean's heart leaps into his throat as Castiel picks it up, twirling it between his fingers.

Castiel doesn't look up, but Dean can't tear his eyes away. From what he knows of their date, there's no way he's sending Jo home so that just leaves Dean, and every part of him aches with the knowledge, but he gets it—Dean fucked up, like, _really_ bad, and there's no coming back from that.

"This week..." Castiel trails off, still looking at the rose with a tiny, half-smile. "There is much I've learned about all of you. Three weeks isn't a lot of time to get to know any of you, but I only pray it's enough to know I'm making the right decision."

In the space between his speech and his silence, Dean feels every bit of his future closing in on him, one way or the other, and as Castiel opens his mouth and takes a breath, Dean aches so bad for the one that has a rose in his hand and Castiel by his side.

"Dean," Castiel whispers, and the air rushes from Dean's lungs as every part of him sags with relief.

He steps from his platform, feeling the weight of trepidation press down harder the closer he gets.

Dean stops in front of Castiel, forcing himself to meet his eyes, and finds no anger there. There's no warmth, either, and he doesn't smile, but a soft kind of acceptance settles in the curves of his features and the tilt of his head.

"Will you accept this rose?" More than the fact that he's being offered a rose, Dean's confused by the apology he hears in Castiel's quiet, gravelly voice. He almost doesn't believe it, but it's there, and how can he say anything but yes?

"Yeah, Cas." He nods for good measure and takes the rose from Castiel's fingers.

They leave it at that, knowing there's a difficult conversation in their future, but willing to hash it out together.

Dean's so distracted by his confusion and the rose in his hand that he doesn't notice Jo's teary eyes and gritted teeth right away, but then he catches her watery gaze and all his relief turns into guilt when he sees the devastation, plain as day, in every inch of her face.

Dean ducks his head and forces the guilt aside as he steps back onto his spot. This is _not _his fault—Castiel's choices of who stays and who goes are his alone, as far as Dean knows, and he refuses to let himself feel like he should be going home instead of her.

Jo doesn't wait to be called forward, stepping off the platform with a click of her heels to stand in front of Castiel. She looks too upset to be angry, but Dean knows that can change in an instant with the wrong words.

"Can you tell me what I did wrong?" Jo says, not quite quiet enough to go unheard. Her voice shakes with barely restrained emotion, and the cameras close in on all sides to catch Castiel's answer.

"You did nothing wrong," Castiel answers, keeping his eyes on her as he speaks. "Joanna, please don't think you did anything wrong, or that you could have done anything to change this outcome."

Jo nods, and from here, Dean can't see the tears dripping down her cheeks, but he knows they're there when she swipes them away. "Okay, thank you, your highness. Thanks for the opportunity."

Then she walks out, her shoes tracing her steps as a couple of guards follow along behind.

Dean doesn't bother trying to talk to Hannah when they crowd around for the toast, and she doesn't make an effort either, sticking to the other side of the room where Castiel smiles at them while Dean pulls Charlie close. He wants to know what Hannah's problem with him is, but he's not about to ask—especially not while she's cozying up with Castiel.

A glass of champagne is thrust into his hand and they all fall silent as Castiel holds up his glass. He smiles at every one of them, his eyes skipping over Dean's as fast as anyone else's before he speaks.

"Here is to another week of getting to know each other." They raise their glasses high, letting the camera's get all their needed footage, before tossing back the sweet, bubbly drink.

It simmers in his stomach as he sets the glass down, making him feel light and floaty. Hey, if that's what it takes to lift the weight off his chest, then so be it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on Twitter at [allmystars_i](https://twitter.com/allmystars_i)  
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	21. WEEK THREE - Saturday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't write this one in advance so I know exactly what you're reading, lol. Also, I kind of feel like not much happens on the Saturday chapters. Dean just kind of wanders around? Gets himself into trouble? I like them though, and Dean's so angsty right now, like what?
> 
> Okay, I'm going to try to finish the next chapter, but don't be surprised if it gets posted later on Saturday or even Sunday since I haven't started it yet.
> 
> Hope you like this one, even though not much happens! I love writing this story, but I also just want to finish it because I'm excited to see what you think of where it goes!
> 
> Anyway, happy Wednesday everyone!

Dean twitches as the sweat tickling his hairline runs down his neck and under his shirt collar. _Don't wipe it, don't wipe it, don't wipe it_, he tells himself, over and over, because _holy fuck_ that little wet, sliding feeling is driving him _nuts_. Who decided there needs to be so many lights, anyway? Or that they have to be so hot?

Dean's knee bounces as nerves flutter in his stomach. He's gotten better at this whole interview thing, and sure, the viewers seem to like his fumbling, awkward performance, but that's the thing—it's _not _a performance. He's just that bad at this, and he kind of hates it, no matter how adorable everyone thinks he is for it.

"Tell us a bit about the group-outing, please?" Duma asks, reading right from her page. She's taken to editing in the questions around his answers since he can't seem to grasp the whole _rephrasing _thing.

But Dean can feel his excitement surging and there's no way he's doing anything but blurting out the tsunami of bubbling words. Not even the sweat beading at his temples distracts him.

"It was _fantastic_!" He shifts on his stool, careful not to lean back, and grins wide. "Before Thursday, I didn't know the Novaks have apple orchards, but it was the best surprise, and the _prince,_" Dean shakes his head with an astonished huff. "That man knows more about apples than anyone else I've ever met! Shit, don't tell Charlie I said that—she'll be all offended and I really don't need another lecture on the difference between early and late blooming apples." Dean winces just thinking about the half-hour of torture after he'd let that little tidbit slip the first time.

"Can you say more on your time with the prince?" Duma smiles encouragingly, letting Dean know he's doing well.

"Yeah, so apparently, I'm a slow apple picker—who knew?" He shrugs, the smile coming to his face as easy as anything.

He's not thinking about their fight, or the fact that Castiel ignored him at breakfast, or anything like that—he's too focussed on the fuzzy warmth of Thursday night. For now, he's just a little nervous, and a bit uncomfortable, but happy to talk about his prince.

"It was getting kind of dark and I'd walked further than I'd thought. I guess they got worried because Castiel and Benjamin—the guard—came looking for me, but instead of making me go back early, Cas and I filled the rest of my basket." Dean ducks his chin as a small, private little smile touches his lips. "That's when he told me about the apples—his favorite kind are Braeburn apples or something like that—and he likes making applesauce."

Dean cuts off his ramble, not wanting to say more than Castiel would like, and his cheeks flush at the thought that he might've said too much already.

"Where does that come from? The nickname, I mean." Duma leans closer, something more than professional interest in her eyes as she forgets her clipboard and rests her chin on her fist.

"The nickname?" Dean asks, so completely thrown off by the question that he actually manages proper question-answering protocol. Well, almost.

"Yes, you called the Crown Prince _Cas_. I'm assuming it's a shortened version of his first name, but how did it come about?" Dean scowls, and in his periphery, he sees Nicholas scowling, too. This _is _weird, then, but Dean decides not to read too much into it. He doesn't think his nickname for the prince is that interesting, but he could be wrong.

"Uh, yeah, it slipped out once—early on in the first week or so, I think—and he told me he..." Dean pauses, catching himself before saying what's on the tip of his tongue. That Castiel _liked _it. He had, but the viewers don't need to hear it in such intimate terms. "He doesn't mind that I call him that, so I do." He shrugs it off like it's not a big deal and, thank God, Duma drops it for now.

"Alright, then," Duma nods, consulting her list of questions as she crosses one leg over the other. "Let's talk a bit about the ceremony last night. How do you feel about the prince's decisions?"

Dean wracks his brain for a suitable answer—one that doesn't incriminate him in the prince's eyes or offend anyone by accident.

"Well..." He shrugs, an awkward, uncomfortable little grin twitching his lips. "I'm happy to still be here, obviously, but," he pauses, a sigh escaping him as his shoulders sag and he looks at the ceiling. "It was hard seeing Jo get sent home, especially after how excited she was about her date on Wednesday. She didn't expect it at all, and I'm sure I won't, either, when it happens, but..." He shrugs again, the pit in his stomach souring as he imagines how Jo must feel. "I don't blame Cas, obviously—I can't even begin to understand how hard this is for him—but she was completely blindsided, you know?"

"Where to now, Winchester?" Benny asks when Dean's finally released from the smoldering hellhole of an interview room. Apparently, Castiel has taken it upon himself to assign each and every one of them a security detail, and Benny is his, even though he hasn't seen anyone else being tailed by a buffed-out guard dressed entirely in black. "Your room?"

"Nah," Dean says, strolling through the halls without any real aim. It's busier than normal for a Saturday—more guards and staff bustling around—and Dean figures Castiel's parents must be back from their trip. "How about the hospital wing?"

Benny raises an eyebrow, a sardonic smile pulling up one side of his mouth. "Take you there, or put you there?"

"Ha-ha, very funny—take me there, dumbass. I thought you were here to protect me from the big, bad whatever-it-is the prince is so afraid of?" Dean spins around narrowing his eyes on Benny as he continues walking backward.

"It's just _the prince_ now, is it? No more _Cas_?" Benny dodges his sly attempt for information like a seasoned pro, and Dean huffs as he turns away.

"Why won't you tell me?" Dean's eyes follow the broad, slightly shorter man as he lengthens his strides and passes Dean, leading him down a set of spiraling stairs set into the wall.

"Come on, brother, you know why. The prince doesn't want me to." Annoyance prickles in Dean's stomach as he struggles to keep up, but the dust they're kicking up tickles his nose and has him on the verge of sneezing in seconds.

"Yeah, but he'll never even know!" He's cut off by a sneeze and has to stop to avoid tumbling down the steps. "Does he think I can't take care of myself?"

"Really?" Benny raises an eyebrow, stopping a few steps below him to turn back and give him a look. "I'm sure you'd manage just fine, pretty boy, _if _you were prepared, but if someone attacks you when you aren't expecting it—"

"He thinks someone's going to attack?" The information half-scares him and half makes him itch for more, but he settles on the latter, bounding down a few more steps with his eyes wide and curious.

Benny takes a deep, steadying breath, like he's trying not to lose his cool and throttle Dean, and closes his eyes. "You'll know more when his royal heinie decides you can know more."

"Rude," Dean mutters, but follows Benny to the bottom of the staircase without another word. He pouts, though—so thoroughly that he's surprised he doesn't trip over his lip.

Benny leads him down a wide hall, this one different from the rest of the palace, with its stark white and smooth tile. It's definitely a hospital, though much nicer than anything Dean's ever seen.

"Who's your boss, anyway? I want to complain," Dean teases as they sidestep a nurse who's too busy looking at his charts to pay attention. "The king, I'd assume?"

"Castiel is my boss." That's all Benny says, and Dean rolls his eyes. Seriously? He expects him to believe that?

"But Castiel's just the prince—"

"He might not be king, but my loyalties lie with him—make no mistake." Benny's voice doesn't shift from his easy accent, and he doesn't bother looking at Dean as he speaks, but something about the devotion in his words gives Dean pause.

No matter the issues he's having with Castiel, he'll always be grateful that there are people like Benny around to take care of his prince with such unwavering loyalty.

"We're here," Benny says, cutting into Dean's thoughts when they reach an open doorway. Natural light spills through into the hall, softening the stark white with a golden glow. "I'll wait by the door."

"Uh, sure," Dean says, shooting Benny one more scowl before he steps inside. He's not sure why he decided to come here, but his feet lead him on, passing bed after bed in the silent ward. It's brighter, and the ceilings are much higher, than Dean expects for being in the lower levels, but when his eyes land on the far wall, he sees why.

There's a floor-to-ceiling window of sorts—almost like a skylight since the glass doesn't open out onto anything but a shaft of light that leads up to ground-level.

Dean walks past the sick and the old until he spots a head of brown hair done up in a severe bun, and a slim build clad in the boring beige staff uniform. Susie's back is to him, ram-rod straight as always, and he stops as soon as he sees her, knowing in an instant that she's the reason he came.

"Hey, Suse," he murmurs as he pulls a chair up beside the bed. He doesn't bother looking at anyone else as her head whips around, a scowl contorting the angles of her face into something harsher than he's used to.

"Mr. Winchester? What are you doing here, boy?" Her scowl softens to a frown as she slides her fingers from the frail hand resting in the blankets.

Dean shrugs, feeling a bit awkward now that he's here, but he presses on. "Thought I'd come for a visit. You know, gossip with your husband about what a—"

"You will do no such thing!" Susie smacks his arm, cutting him off before he can finish his sentence, but there's a hint of a smile on her lips, so mission accomplished.

"Seriously, though," Dean says when they settle down. "I wanted to check in. You've been rushing out so fast in the morning, I hardly get the chance to ask about anything."

"That's the point," she mutters, almost quiet enough that Dean can't here, but the place isn't nearly loud enough to drown her out.

"What's up?" he asks instead of dignifying that with a response. "How's he doing?" Dean lets his eyes wander to the man lying, still and pale, in the hospital bed. He tries not to stare too long, but it's hard with how skeletal Susie's husband is. His gaunt face is hollow in places it shouldn't be, and his sunken eyes give Dean the chills.

"Stubborn," she snaps, scowling so hard her eyebrows practically meet in the middle, and Dean can't help the bark of laughter that bursts from his lips. Susie jumps and turns her scowl on him. "What? He _is _stubborn!"

"Pot," Dean says, gesturing at Susie. "Meet kettle." He pats the side of her husband's bed, who doesn't even twitch.

Susie glowers, but there's a glimmer in her eyes he hasn't seen in a while. She sighs, then, her shoulders sagging like the weight of the world rests on them. "He's not good, but that's nothing new." Her fingers shake when she slides them over her husbands', and with a glance at the chart hanging from the end of his bed, Dean finds out his name is Conrad. "Cancer, you know—a curable one, but that man is so damn pig-head—don't you start with me boy!"

Dean throws up his hands in surrender, feigning offense, and scoffs. "I didn't say anything!"

"But you were thinking it," she mutters, narrowing her eyes to slits as Dean fights to hold back a smile.

"We're _all _thinking it," a quiet, hoarse voice croaks from the bed and Susie's entire face softens like Dean's never seen before. She turns away from him, looking down at her husband with so much love shining in her eyes. It chokes Dean up a little, a lump pushing its way into his windpipe, but he clears his throat and gets a handle on his emotions.

"Oh, hush, you." Susie swats at his hand, too light for him to feel anything but a brush of air, and Dean sits back, watching as she fusses over him, and Conrad tries to ward her off without much energy.

For a moment, Dean aches for what they have; he wants the love he can see in both of them—he wants to have that with Castiel—and it has him feeling like an intruder, peeking in on something he's on the precipice of losing. He wants it so damn bad it hurts, and the fact that he might never get it terrifies him more than almost anything.

"You know I appreciate you, boy—that you took the time to be here," Susie says, turning to Dean, and jogging him from his thoughts, after giving up on trying to fix Conrad's blankets. She brushes a strand of hair from Dean's forehead and pats his freshly-shaven cheek. "But I put too much work into your pretty face for you to be sitting in here. Go get yourself on TV, huh?"

Dean lets a smile curve his lips. He knows when he's not wanted, and that's fine. They want their privacy—he gets that. "Sure thing, Suse." He pushes up from his chair and replaces it by the other bed. Then he meets the sunken eyes of Susie's husband for just a moment. "Make sure she doesn't stir up too much trouble?"

The dying man chuckles—a wet, sputtering sound—and nods. "I'll do my best."

Dean squeezes Susie's shoulder one last time, feeling the ache in his chest double-down on him, and hurries along the center row and out the door before the tears welling in his eyes have a chance to fall.

"Dean? Is that you?"

Dean smiles at the sound of his mom's voice, back in his room with the phone pressed to his ear as he leans back on the couch. "Yeah, it's me."

"Oh, I knew it! John! Dean's on the phone!" He hears his dad yell from another room—just a faint _hello _before his mom is back. "How's everything going there? Are you okay? Are you happy? They're feeding you well, right? They're not still giving you a hard time, are they? And what about that—"

"Whoa, hold up!" Dean laughs, cutting off her bombardment of questions. "I'm _fine._ They're treating me great." He kicks his feet up on the cushions, lounging back against the armrest with one hand behind his head. "I saw you on TV."

"Oh! Yes, and you're the favorite! I knew you would be; who _wouldn't _love my sweet little boy? I bet it'll just make that prince love you more." His mom just keeps talking, but the blood freezes in his veins as soon as the words leave her mouth.

A whole new fear swells up inside him. What if Castiel is being so loving because his _people _love Dean? What if the only reason he wants to be around Dean so much is because it looks good on camera?

It's all he can think about for the rest of his phone call, but his mom doesn't seem to notice, prattling on about Sam, and his dad, and the shitty beets in the market, while Dean debates his importance to his prince.

Dean stops at the edge of the lawns, just before stepping into the grass, and slips out of his shoes and socks. There's no one around—not a guard or a cameraman or a suitor after he manages to ditch Benny—so he figures walking barefoot in the grounds won't be a big deal.

The dirt sinks between his toes, cold and wet from the morning drizzle, but when he tips his head back to the sky, there are only a few fluffy, white clouds softening the deep blue sky.

A light shiver tickles down Dean's spine as the breeze picks up, rustling his hair, and the leaves in the trees. They're just starting to turn amber and crimson, but Dean's never known a season where they fall before Christmas. Maybe he'll be home before they do this year, too?

He wanders without really going anywhere, but steers clear of the forest, just in case someone decides to yell at him again. Instead, he walks the treeline, his fingers brushing the rough bark before slipping back into the air. Over and over as the earth between his toes gets damper and colder, and before he knows it, Dean's made his way to the cover of the back of the barn.

It's colder back here, the ground, damper, and shadows, stronger. Dean wraps his arms around himself as the breeze cuts through his suit jacket and sends a shiver down his spine.

He's just about to step out from behind the barn when a pair of voices float through the air to where he's not-quite hiding, but concealed from sight.

"Oh, my first date? I was sixteen, and he took me to a school dance." That's April, Dean's sure of it, and when he peeks around the corner, he's not surprised to find her with a delighted smile on her lips as she holds Castiel's entire focus. It's like she's the only one in the world to him, and the sight of _that _look on Castiel's face, directed at someone other than himself, makes him sick.

"I would assume it didn't go well?" The laughter in his prince's voice matches the smile on his face, and Dean leans out a little further, trying to keep them in sight as they veer off towards the barracks.

"Oh, no." April shakes her head, leaning closer to Castiel, but never quite touching him as he keeps his hands tucked behind his back. "I was his second choice, and as soon as his _first _choice's first choice dumped her, he forgot I existed." She shrugs, a sad smile curving her lips, and it almost has Dean feeling bad for her.

"He ignored you? Just like that?" Dean leans a bit closer, but ducks behind the wall when Castiel glances up, his heart skipping a beat as his breath catches, but he doesn't think he's been spotted. "I can't imagine anyone ignoring a lovely lady such as yourself."

April's laugh tinkles through the air like chiming bells, and it would be pretty if it didn't grate on Dean's nerves. "You flatter me."

He doesn't know why he's so on edge—okay, yes he does—but he hates the anger he feels towards the other suitors. They're not his enemy, just his competition, but that doesn't mean they can't be friends, right?

"I'm serious," Castiel insists, and the happiness in his eyes does something to Dean—it sinks him into sadness, but there's another part of him that revels in it. He just wants Castiel to be happy, after all. "You are one of a kind, and anyone who doesn't see that is a fool."

Dean's heart clenches, a lump rising in his throat—he can't listen to this anymore; it hits too close to the words Castiel's whispered to him so many times before—and he steps out from behind the barn, not caring if he's discovered.

But Castiel doesn't so much as glance his way—it's like Dean's not even there—and that hurts more than anything. He and April just keep on walking, oblivious to what's going on around them, and Dean picks up his pace as the sick feeling in his stomach swells and curdles.

With his shoes swinging by his fingers and his toes going numb, Dean keeps his head down as he walks. He doesn't even see where he's going, but when their voices fade to nothing, he thinks he's far enough away to be safe.

"Dean, what're you doing out here?" Dean cringes when April's voice comes from right behind him, and he curls his toes into the dirt, kicking himself for not noticing which direction they were heading.

He stops and rearranges his facial features, lowering his shoulders to a reasonable level, before turning around.

_Boom_.

It's like an electric charge zipping through him when those striking blue eyes meet his. He hardly notices April standing there as every nerve ending in his body attunes itself to Castiel. It's like they're the only two standing there until April clears her throat.

It takes more effort than should be necessary to look away from his prince. Dean clears his throat before he speaks. "I, uh... I'm going for a walk." He shrugs, holding up his shoes as a flush burns up his neck and into his cheeks.

"Without shoes?" April arches an eyebrow, and even as subtle as it is, he can hear the judgment in her voice—the sharp superiority in her tone—and he's reminded again of why she's among the suitors he _won't _be making friends with.

Dean doesn't bother answering, not even offering her a shrug. He's tired of the condescension from all of them, and even if Hannah can brush it off for him—offering apologies that aren't her's to give—he can't, and he shouldn't have to.

So, he stares her down, jaw clenched and eyes narrowing further by the second as his patience wears thinner and thinner. She scowls after a minute, her nose turning up as her carefully constructed front starts to crumble before his eyes, but before she can speak, Castiel cuts her off.

"I used to do the same as a boy; the grass feels nice between the toes." Castiel smiles, but his words just piss Dean off. He's not sure why, but even that small mention of the act being childish has his blood pressure spiking and his hands shaking by his sides. "We... we should be going," Castiel says, softer this time—almost hesitant—as he draws April away.

Dean doesn't wait for them to turn before he gives a curt nod and pivots on his heel. Angry tears burn the back of his throat and sting his eyes, and it just pisses him off more. Not even the icy breeze can cool his temper as he stomps away, the sky clouding over again, darker this time. When he gets far enough out, he glances over his shoulder, but what he sees just makes him wish he hadn't.

Castiel leans close to April, walking only inches apart with their heads bent together like they've forgotten Dean's existence, entirely.

He forces himself around and keeps moving until he's over the crest of the hill. Then, and only then, does he stop, and toss his shoes aside before lowering himself to the grass.

It's just as cold and wet against the seat of his pants as it is under his feet, but he lies back anyway, ignoring the way the chill seeps into his bones as his nose runs from the cold. The lump in his throat swells, choking him up as he stares at the dull, slate-gray sky.

How quickly things change here—the sky, from blue to gray, and the prince, from hot to cold. He wishes this fickle place, with its fickle people, would slow down a bit and let him catch up.

Everything moves too fast. The rain, as it falls, and his tears, as they do the same, sliding down his cheeks and soaking into the grass.

He lets himself cry—to feel the sadness inside himself, just this once. He crumbles, his walls coming down with no one around to see it as his face pinches up and the tears run freely. He feels the release in his bones—shakes with it; the great, heaving sobs wracking through him.

Dean knows he'll have to go back soon. People will look for him, and they'll ask questions, but does he really care? If they ask, does he _really _care what they think of his answer?

Besides, he can just blame his red eyes and wet cheeks on the weather, and no one will be the wiser.

No one will even care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	22. WEEK THREE - Sunday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took sooo long to write and I don't even know why. Okay, I do, but it shouldn't have. Anyway, again, I don't know if there will be two chapters this week because I'm pretty busy, but we'll see.
> 
> Sorry it's so late in the day, but I just finished reading it over now.
> 
> Now sure how I feel about this chapter, but whatever. It needs to happen, so here it is. 
> 
> Let me know what you think!

"Mr. Winchester, wake up."

Dean groans, rolling onto his stomach and pressing his face into the warm, softer-than-a-cloud pillow to hide from the golden rays snatching away the night, and the snippy voice that grates on his nerves.

"_What_?" With his throat raw, and eyes swollen and aching, he knows he looks and sounds like a total wreck, so even when Susie shoves at his shoulder, he doesn't roll over.

"I would ask who pissed in your cornflakes, but breakfast is waffles. Get up," she snaps, far more bite in her tone than Dean has the energy to defy. With a snarl and a scowl, he flips over but does nothing more than stare at the ceiling with his limbs flopping haphazardly in the sheets.

"Someone needs to put some curtains up," Dean grumbles instead of commenting on the fact that she brought him food. His bottom lip juts out in a pout, and he doesn't meet her gaze, throwing an arm over his eyes, instead, to block out the offending sunlight.

"And someone _else_ needs to unearth whatever crawled up their ass and be _polite_." Susie smacks him again, on his bare chest this time, but it's not the anger that makes him feel guilty; it's the undertone of hurt in every word.

Dean pushes a sigh past his chapped lips and lets his arm fall away as he turns his head to meet her glare. "You'd think I'd know by now when to stop being a dick to those who don't deserve it."

"You'd think," Susie agrees, one thin, perfectly plucked eyebrow arching as she looks down her nose at him.

"Sorry, Suse; it's been a rough weekend, is all." He rubs at his aching eyes and decides he doesn't really want to sit up yet, so he doesn't.

"That, it has, my boy." To Dean's surprise, instead of forcing him up, Susie sits beside him, her scowl melting into that motherly smile he'll never get tired of seeing, as she brushes his messy, tangled hair off his forehead. "And I wish we could both take a day, but I need to work, and you need new suits."

"Really? More suits?" Dean pushes himself up and pouts at the garment bag by her feet, only just noticing that it is, in fact, full of suits.He lets himself fall back with a groan, bouncing in the sheets as his head sinks into the mound of pillows.

"You don't expect to wear the same one _twice_?" Susie hauls two more bags onto his bed, filled to bursting with pre-measured suits, he's sure.

"I only own _one _suit back home, so, _yeah_," he says but rolls out of bed anyway, and heads for the bathroom. The material shuffle of sliding fabric and crinkling garment bags drifts down the hall, but he calls out to Susie over his shoulder to make sure she doesn't follow. "I'm showering by myself today. Get whatever you need ready; I won't be too long."

He makes sure to lock the door behind him, needing peace and quiet for just a few minutes before throwing himself into the mayhem of fitting and tailoring.

"Fuck, _ouch_, Suse! I'm in here, you know," Dean grumbles after the hundredth time he's stuck with a pin.

Susie just glares up at him, pins held between pursed lips, and marks the loose seam of the chocolate-colored, three-piece suit. Not his favorite, but none of them are, really.

They're only on the third one, but it's been _hours_, he's sure of it, and when he looks at the clock, his stomach flips. "The viewing's about to start," he says, panic and hope mixing in his tone as he glances down at her head.

Susie pulls the pins from her mouth without looking at him. "We're not finished."

Dean's heart sinks and his shoulders sag, but piercing pain stabs him in the ribs. "Fucking, _fuck_," he hisses, flinching away, but Susie drags him back into place.

"Don't move!"

"Come _on_, I don't want to miss it. Can't we do this later?" _Or never_, he thinks, and she must read his thoughts on his face because she gives him the dirtiest, darkest look he's ever seen.

"We will do it now. Come on, take it off." She steps back, waving both hands for him to hurry when Dean doesn't move. "_Now_, Mr. Winchester."

Dean peels the jacket off as carefully as he can, trying not to prick himself, or knock any pins out. He does the same with the rest of his clothes until he's down to his underwear and he only pricks himself twice, but not bad enough to bleed, so Susie hardly notices since he won't be staining his brand-new, white button-down.

"Robe." She holds out the thick, dark blue dressing robe for him to slip into, and he pulls it on, feeling the soft material caress his bare skin before he ties it at his waist. "And shoes."

"How many more are there?" Dean asks as he slips his feet into a pair of matching slippers and throws two of the garment bags over his shoulder.

"Ten," Susie says, holding the door for him before pulling it closed with a click.

"Okay, well that's not so bad—"

"Per bag."

Dean gapes at the back of her head as she leaves him behind. _Thirty_? What the hell is he going to do with thirty suits? And, more importantly, what's the palace going to do with close to seventy suits, tailored specially for him, when he's gone? He's not going to want them, that's for fucking sure.

"Does no one re-wear clothes around here?" Dean says as he pulls his robe tighter, trying to block out the breeze floating through the halls and up the open bottom. "Jesus, it's like no one can be caught dead in last year's fashion."

The borderline scandalized look Susie shoots over her shoulder tells him all he needs to know, and Dean's never rolled his eyes harder in his life, than he does in that moment.

"There are people going hungry and the fancy-pants upper-classes can't wear the same fancy pants twice," Dean grumbles under his breath, more than a little annoyed. He still remembers the hunger pains of his childhood. He remembers his parents pretending to eat, so he would, too, because, at the age of four, dirty, scuffed, second-third-fourth-hand plastic food doesn't look all that different from soggy beans on stale bread.

Most of the time, it's easy to forget the ocean-wide canyon between his own poverty and the wealth of the upper-classes, but every once in a while, at times like this, it hits him over the head like a ton of bricks.

Now that he thinks of it, the reason for new suits probably has a lot to do with the fact that he's being properly fed for the first time in his life. He's finally at a healthy weight, with some to spare, so what about when all this is gone?

A sliver of panic stabs at him, twisting in his gut as his heart studders and his hands get clammy. It's the same feeling he's had all his life, and he knows the signs, but here, in this rich, decadent place, the panic only swells higher.

Knowing you're hungry while you're hungry is one thing.

Knowing you're _going_ to be hungry while _also_ feeling what it's like to be full, is something else entirely.

Dean doesn't even register the walk to the viewing room. He keeps his eyes trained on the floor as they pass through the hallway of rainbows, blinded every few feet by reds, blues, greens, and yellows. He hardly notices the armed guards standing watch when he steps through the viewing room doors, but when he _does _look up, the first thing he sees makes him wish he hadn't.

Hannah, April, and Meg stand so close to Castiel, they're practically in his lap, and the prince it eating it up. He just fucking loves it, and it makes Dean sick.

Dean turns his nose up at them. It's an unconscious reaction, but he regrets it as soon as he looks up and finds a camera trained on his face.

His stomach drops, but when Alfie pokes his head out with a sympathetic smile and points at the front where the red light should be blinking, Dean lets out a sigh of relief. No one saw that but Alfie and no one will.

"Sucks, doesn't it?" Alfie whispers, scrunching his nose up as he drops the camera off his shoulder and leans back on his heels.

"More than you'd think." Dean slaps Alfie's arm as he passes, ignoring the others as they primp and prepare, on his way to the corner where Susie has a tiny little platform set up for him to stand on.

"Up you go, boy," Susie says, her no-nonsense tone not giving him an option but to do as he's told, which he does with a sigh.

With the extra three inches, it's easy for him to see over the heads of the camera crew bustling around the room. Charlie smirks over her shoulder at him, and Kelly can't seem to take her eyes off him, which sends a shiver down his spine. Anxious energy zips through him as he feels every set of eyes in the room on him. Not all at once, but when he's not looking, and a lump lodges itself in his throat, choking off his lungs and sending ripples of panic through him.

"Come on, off with it," Susie huffs, and for whatever reason, Dean hadn't even registered that he'll have to strip in this room with all these people watching him. For a moment, he chokes on his panic, feeling it surge and swell inside him, and he shakes with it, right down to his knees.

But to his shock, the panic bleeds away when he digs a little deeper and realizes it's an echo of an old fear—to be so exposed in a room full of strangers—but now?

Now, he's more confident in who he is, and that realization emboldens him enough to untie the knot at his belly button and let the robe fall from his shoulders, slide down his arms, before landing in a dark blue puddle at his feet.

Now he _knows _all eyes are on him—okay, so, not _all_, but a lot, anyway—and he doesn't care. He feels them, but he doesn't _care_. With a few deep, calming breaths, Dean clenches his fists before shaking out his fingers. He's fine—everything is fine.

"Ready?" Susie murmurs, holding up the same brown suit and white button-down for him to slip into. Dean stands there while she dresses him, careful not to move too fast and knock out any pins, and this time, he doesn't prick himself.

"Hey," Sarah says, her voice coming from his left, and when he looks up, he finds her pretty hazel eyes smiling at him. "Getting new suits?"

Dean shrugs, a blush rising in his cheeks as he grins. "That, and a few more people seeing me mostly-naked than I'd like." Susie pricks him with another pin, this one near his hip, and he winces. "But I didn't want to miss it."

Even with her hair done up under a shower cap, and a facemask paling her normally dewy complexion, she's charming, and Dean can't help but see exactly what Castiel sees when he looks at her.

"Done," Susie says, her voice cutting through Dean's thoughts as he jerks to attention. "Off with the jacket, boy."

Dean's cheeks burn hotter when Sarah doesn't turn away, and a pulsing kind of heated embarrassment works its way through his veins. God, this is awkward—it's _humiliating_—but Dean just drops his eyes to the floor, ignoring Sarah, and the camera crew, and even Castiel who, when Dean peeks around the room, watches with the kind of attention Dean has only ever reserved for his dessert, and Dean peels off the jacket.

The thought of Castiel actually wanting him like _that_ sends a thrill up his spine, heating his blood and sending waves of pleasure crashing through him in a way he absolutely does _not _want right now.

He's undressing in a room full of strangers, for fuck's sake.

"Well, I should get back," Sarah says when the awkward silence gets to be too much, and she backs away, still smiling with her eyes. "I'm sure you'd look just as good in a paper bag, but I won't keep your stylist from her job."

"O-okay," Dean stutters, and he's sure he's as red as a beet as she spins away. "Ow, what the fuck?" Dean flinches, tearing his eyes off Sarah's back when Susie jabs him with a pin. "You did that on purpose."

Susie scowls, shooting him the kind of glare that would have him shrinking away a few weeks ago, but he matches it now because what the fuck? "Sure did." That's all she says and he can't for the life of him figure out why.

Is it because he talked to Sarah? He can't think of anything else he's done wrong so, is that it? Really? But she doesn't give him a chance to ask before growling the answer in his ear.

"Don't you dare hurt my other boy, Mr. Winchester—not with a girl like that." Anger swoops in to snuff out his confusion so fast his head spins, and a fire burns in his chest. It builds and builds until he could burst with it—tear into her like she's just accused him of murder—but he doesn't.

He holds it in, icing himself off to her when he meets her glare. "How _dare_ you?" he spits, so quiet he's surprised she even hears him. It's one thing having accusations thrown at him from someone who's never met him, like Reginald did at the orchard, but from Susie? _Susie__,_ of all people?

Dean is _not _a cheater. To him, it's the worst thing you can do to someone you love, and he won't be accused of it.

Susie blinks back her surprise, pausing as she holds up a pin, ready to tuck it into his shirt. "Pardon me?" She arches an eyebrow like he's done something wrong, and it's that last little look that has his temper boiling over.

"Get out," he says, tugging the shirts off as fast as he can, then his pants. He tosses them aside, not caring where they land until he's back down to nothing but his underwear.

"What the _hell_ are you doing, boy?" Susie takes a step back, out the way of his flailing arms—her eyes wide and a little annoyed. "Don't be ridiculous; I won't _get out_—"

"Fine, don't leave, then," he snaps, in nothing but his briefs. The room is quiet now, but Dean hardly notices as he stares her down. "But I'm not standing here while you jab me with pins, and accuse me of doing something I'd _never_ do."

"Winchester—"

"No." He snatches up his robe and pulls it on, not bothering to look at her as he steps off the platform, his slippers slapping against his heels. He's never been this angry with her before—with anyone, really—but fuck, accusing him of cheating? And with his fight with Castiel unresolved, he's just tired of all this bullshit. Yeah, he's poor, and maybe not as well-mannered, or educated as the others, but that doesn't make him stupid or _unfaithful_. "We're not doing this."

He drops down beside Charlie without another word, anger simmering in his stomach, but Susie doesn't argue like he expects her to. Instead, he listens as she gathers up her crap, sniffling softly, and leaves without a fuss.

Dean lets out a breath, and it seems to go on and on as he deflates. Somewhere deep in the most damaged parts of himself, guilt starts to creep in—for talking to Sarah in the first place, and even thinking she's pretty, to yelling at Susie for her accusations, but mostly for giving anyone a reason to suspect he might cheat.

He knows it's fucked up, but it's there, and there's nothing he can do about it but remind himself he's in the right.

"What was that all about?" Charlie asks, leaning in with her legs crossed under her and her fiery hair up in curlers.

Dean flicks his eyes in her direction, not bothering to close his robe when the knot loosens and the sides fall open. He just barely catches sight of Castiel and his fawning entourage before he looks away.

"She thought I was flirting with Sarah," Dean snaps, letting it all come out in a forceful whisper. "She just—" He shakes his head, his voice trembling with every word. He can't even _say _it without wanting to scream. "She accused me of _cheating _on him—like I'd actually stoop that low."

He scoffs, shaking his head with disgust, but Charlie doesn't look at him now, her eyes fixed on the dark screen.

"So, you think less of me, then?" It's no more than a whisper—just a breath from her lips—but Dean hears the accusation loud and clear, and he can't even deny it.

He doesn't say anything, not wanting to start in with her, too. She must see it on his face, though, and hear it in his silence, because she just ducks her chin with a bitter little smile, and moves to the other side of the room without another word.

Dean's heart clenches as he watches her go, feeling like the whole world is falling in on him—like he just pushed away the last person who loves him—but what is he supposed to do? He _does _think what she's doing is wrong, and yeah, he's happy for her in some ways—that she's found love here that will probably last—but in others, Castiel still thinks she's here for him, and that betrayal of his trust is something Dean _hates_.

With a lump in his throat and his stomach twisting itself in knots, Dean buries his face in his hands with a groan.

Is it even worth it? All this faith he has in Castiel? He's losing every friend he has in this place for the sake of one man, who probably won't even choose him after the way things have been going.

He's not sure if it is—not if everyone keeps accusing him of things they don't know anything about—and he's sure it won't be long before his family hears something about doubts cast his way.

But the other part of him is reminded that Castiel doesn't think he's unfaithful—sure, Dean's still mad about the whole _you'll do as I say_ thing, but that's something they can deal with. Building trust that's already broken isn't something they can fix.

He's so lost in his thoughts that it takes him several minutes to realize the viewing is well underway, and he lifts his face from his hands to watch, as the chatter continues around him.

There he is, his smiling face off in the distance in the dining hall as he and Castiel sit with their heads bent close. It's Monday, that much he knows, and he can almost pinpoint the moment Castiel flirts with him by the way his cheeks flush.

A mixture of longing and sadness swell up inside him and all he can do is stare. Not even a hint of a smile touches his lips, and he curls in on himself after a while, drawing his knees up to his chest and resting his chin on his stacked hands.

The first thing that pops up on screen after the commercial break is his ass.

Well, his _back_ as he walks away, but _damn _his butt looks good in those pants. The thought lightens the load on his shoulders a little, and even more so when his TV-self spins in place, looking up at the cathedral ceilings and out the towering windows.

Even now, the beauty of this place isn't lost on him.

It doesn't take long before he meets up with Jo and Kelly, and he watches his own discomfort as, once again, someone suggests he was doing something he shouldn't have.

God, is sex all these people think about? It's like he's accused of sneaking off with someone every ten minutes.

Something about these viewings is almost cathartic—like seeing the events of the last week from another point of view helps him make sense of it all—even if it's mortifying as hell.

Especially when they get to the Flour Incident of Tuesday Afternoon. Dean had hoped that wouldn't play—that maybe the Gods would spare him for once.

Sure, the playback is funny, and everyone in the room laughs, but it feels like he's watching it all from a distance, separate from his own thoughts and feelings. Yeah, that's him, but really, it could be anybody.

Then, a reprieve—well, kind of.

The show cuts to April standing inches from Castiel, not a part of her actually touching the prince, but so close it's hard to tell. She's going on and on about something—her charities, it sounds like—and the way she twirls her hair around her finger with her eyes shining like they hold the sun, has TV Castiel staring like it'd be a crime to tear his eyes away.

It's like a car crash for Dean—he knows it's going to hurt, but he's got to keep watching.

Somewhere between April's flirting and Jo falling into the fountain, Castiel must disappear, because the next thing Dean knows, Meg's got that devil-bitch face on in an interview.

"How are we supposed to get to know him if he disappears every twenty minutes? Like, I know he has work to do, but we're here for him; he should at least show up for us, too."

Dean's eyes snap over to where Meg sits, glaring over her shoulder at Mick. "You edited that," she growls, her eyes spitting ire when Mick raises an eyebrow and shrugs.

"Don't blame your pissy attitude on me, cupcake."

Dean rolls his eyes at both of them, but before he can turn back to face the screen, a pair of blue eyes catch on his. Castiel's watching him with calculated impassivity. There's nothing on his face to betray his thoughts, and Dean tears his eyes away with a knot twisting in his stomach.

Monday melts into Tuesday with breakfast as usual, but Dean's bored of breakfast. They're all pretty well the same stream of backhanded compliments and passive-aggressive insults.

It isn't until after lunch, when Dean knows he's already inside, that things get a bit interesting.

Castiel seems to have disappeared again, leaving his fan club bereft and annoyed, holding their hotdogs close to their chests' like they don't know what to do with them.

All seems quiet onscreen—probably the result of careful editing—then, an ear-piercing cry as the cameras whip around to find Michaelwith his hotdog at his feet, staring down at his ketchup-stained button-down with a look of abject horror.

"My _shirt_! You've _ruined _my shirt!" That's all he says, over and over, his voice thick with rage and despair, and if Dean didn't know any better from watching the footage, he'd think someone had died.

"Oh, please, I didn't do anything!" TV Charlie shouts, trying—and failing—to fight back a grin.

Her eyes dance with glee even through the camera lens—the HD footage is second to none—and it lights a spark of happiness inside Dean to see his friend so happy, but it's snuffed out just as quickly when he glances up to catch her eye and finds her ignoring him with the steadfast determination she's known for.

There's a bit more shouting and a _lot _more drama before Michael's face pops up on the screen for a piece of his interview.

"She did that on purpose; I won't believe anything else. I looked spectacular in that suit, and she _intentionally _bumped into me. Just look at the footage; it will show you everything you need to know. I should sue her." His mouth pinches up as he sniffs, unimpressed, but that's his normal look, so Dean's not too worried about Charlie's fate.

Immediately following, Charlie's wicked grin flashes at them. "What an idiot," she says, and that's _all _she says before they cut to commercial.

Dean doesn't bother looking around the room as the commercials run their course. It's getting hotter and hotter in the tiny space, with all the cameras, lights, equipment, and beauty crap, and Dean's robe feels stifling, so he lets it drop from his shoulders, not caring that he's just a pair of briefs away from exposing the crown jewels.

The whir, snip, and buzz of stylists at work fills the small room, the only one not having anything done is Dean, and it doesn't feel right. Not having Susie here, after everything she's done for him, feels like a hole in his routine. He hates it, and he almost wishes she were still here—not that he hadn't sent her away, buthe wishes that he didn't have to.

Dean picks at the fluffy fibers of his slippers, peeling off balls of loose cotton as the show comes back on. He isn't really all that interested anymore, but he knows what's happening, when.

Like, when Jo gets her date card, and Dean can practically _feel _the happiness pouring through the screen.

Dean blocks out the rest of Tuesday, not really caring to hear about it. All he can think about is how Castiel went right from the rainbow room to give Jo that card. He must have, since the light pouring through the windows is right, and Dean knows for a fact that dinner wasn't too long after they got back.

The next time he looks up, he wishes he hadn't.

It's Wednesday, and TV Castiel smiles across a two-person table at Jo, who talks on and on about her life.

There isn't a single hint in the prince's face that he's having doubts about her. He looks happy—attentive, and sweet, and charming as ever—and Dean can't see any reason why Jo would suspect that she might be going home.

It's terrifying, really, and unsettles Dean more than he wants it to. What if he's next? Thinks he's safe, then tossed out of the palace? _What if_?

When the Fan-favourites comes up, that feeling of unease doubles down on him, sucking the air from his lungs because all it does is remind him that the fan-favorites mean nothing in the grand scheme of things. They have no pull—no sway in who stays or leaves—and, yeah, Dean's _scared_.

But the next clip has the knot in his stomach loosening a little because it's Castiel, face flushed and smiling wide at the back of Dean's head. He looks pleased as pie—like Dean is _his_ favorite, too—and it warms Dean's heart.

Dean feels a little better after that as TV Castiel hands him a slice of pie and pulls his chair close.

"It's strange," a voiceover of April says across a clip of Dean laughing. "How much attention the prince gives Dean. He's alright, I guess, but it just makes you think, you know?" Dean's blood cools and he shrinks into himself further as the veiled bitterness in her tone sinks into his bones. "What's so special about Dean Winchester?"

"This orchard has been in the Novak family for nearly three hundred years, and my family has maintained them for longer." Reginald's hoarse, croaking voice fills the viewing room as two or three suitors mill through the trees in an unfocused, blurry haze over his shoulder. Dean doesn't see himself, but that's to be expected. He's way back in the orchard, wandering in the trees at this point.

"We grow all kinds of apples in every season there is and, make no mistake, the best apples in the world come from the Novak's, right here in Amarellino." The pride in the old man's wrinkled face is obvious, but Dean still doesn't like him, and he barely holds back an eye-roll as annoyance burns in his stomach.

Thankfully, the footage switches to the nine of them and Castiel being released into the trees, and he catches a glimpse of his bundled back, out of focus, as he disappears into the thick foliage.

Dean doesn't pay much attention to most of it, and really, he's not sure why anyone else would, either. Sure, there's gossip and shit-talk between the suitors who get back early, sitting around the high tables, sipping apple cider, and whispering about each other behind backs and right to faces.

Looks like the camera crew got bored as well, and decided to do some interviews during the wait. Hannah stands straight-backed, her hands folded in front of her, with a pleasant smile on her face.

"It's been lovely so far, and the apple picking was neat. I have been here so many times, it's hard to count, but it's breathtaking every time." Hannah's smile is easy and sweet, and she's so comfortable in front of a camera it's like she was made for it.

Even with whatever tension remains between them, Dean knows that if Castiel doesn't pick him, he wants it to be Hannah his prince ends up with.

"It's so good to see Castiel again, as well—"

There's a commotion in the background—blurred, but there's definitely something wrong—and Hannah's smile falters as she looks over her shoulder.

Dean's not sure who's behind the camera, but they make a break from the door, the video jolting and wavering as harsh, panicked voices break through the good-natured chatter.

"What do you mean, he's not back?" That's Castiel—Dean knows it—and he sits up a little, knowing they must be talking about him. The cameras get up-close-and-personal with Castiel, showing the barely-contained fear written all over his face. "We're supposed to leave. Everyone should be done by now."

The words are spoken more to himself than to the guards, and his eyes flick back and forth as he struggles to figure out what to do. Dean's heart pounds like he just ran a ten-mile race, and even with his focus on the screen, he can feel Castiel's eyes on him.

"What would you like us to do, your highness?"

"He needs to be found," Castiel says, his voice wavering in the tiniest way. "I'm going to find him."

"Your highness, I wouldn't recommend—"

But Castiel isn't listening, and he doesn't say another word, standing frozen in place with his pink cheeks glowing and his brows furrowed, before he spins on his heel and strides off into the trees.

The cameras don't fallow, as Dean knows, but, with only a moment's hesitation, Benjamin stumbles after him.

Then, they're gone, leaving the other suitors, guards, and camera crew nervous and more than a little confused.

After all that, Dean kind of expects the complaints about Castiel running off again, but holy _fuck_, he doesn't expect so many.

They come from the obvious ones: Meg, Michael, and April. But to Dean's shock, Hannah has words to say, too.

"I'm positive he's fine. Dean is a grown man, and he can take care of himself. I'm not sure why Castiel feels the need to go after Dean himself, anyway; that's what guards are for." It's not her words, exactly, but how she says them. There's a sliver of annoyance in the lilt of her voice, and fuck, that hurts.

Dean turns his head to look at her, the hurt and betrayal lining his face and coloring his cheeks, and what he finds in Hannah's eyes looking back, isn't quite what he'd call regret, but more that she's sorry she got caught.

Dean doesn't look her way again.

Friday is boring to watch.

Castiel's not around, and neither is Dean, so he doesn't pay much attention, especially through the date with Sarah.

It's the same old thing, anyway. Sarah is all smiles and chatter, and Castiel is perfect. As always. And it's annoying as hell.

Until they get back to the palace.

Dean cringes, knowing how it must go from here, as Sarah's heels echo in the entrance hall and the footage frames them together, backs to the camera. Dean can't deny that Castiel looks damn good in anything he wears, but he's a bit jealous of just _how _good he looks for a date.

In his tight-fitted trousers that hug his perfect ass, and tailored, dark blue jacket, paired with the black button-down, he looks _delicious_, and he'd bet the last slice of pie that everyone else in the room thinks so, too.

"Your highness," a guard says—Benny, this time. He looks more than a little concerned, but to his credit, he hides it well. "Winchester is missing again." Benny's eyes flick to Sarah, then back to Castiel, who's shoulders tighten as soon as the words are spoken.

Dean scowls at the screen, catching that there's something unspoken between the two of them, and he sits up—pays more attention.

"Missing? You've looked everywhere?" A hand through his hair as he looks around the entrance hall like he's expecting to find Dean lurking in a corner.

"Yes, sir. Been missing since dinner—hasn't been seen since just after lunch. Miss Bradbury informed me he was taking a private walk in the forest when she last saw him."

"And you've searched the woods?" Castiel asks, and TV Sarah looks between the two of them, just as confused as Dean _still _is, but neither of them addresses her.

"Of course, sir." Benny shuffles his feet, looking back down at Sarah again for a second. "Your highness, could this mean—"

"No, no." Castiel shakes his head, almost violent in the movement, and it looks more like denial than assurance. "No, I—" He stops, swallowing hard as he stares at the marble floors. It's dark by this point, so there's no rainbow light to tip him off, but Dean sees the exact moment Castiel thinks of it. "Take Miss Blake back to her room, then return here."

Then he's marching across the hall, full of purpose and barely contained tremors as he takes the stairs two at a time. Dean knows where he's going—knows he's coming for him—but nothing is cleared up by seeing it from another perspective like he'd hoped it would be.

The scene cuts to the aftermath of his falling out with Hannah, to his fight with Castiel, and a lump rises in his throat at the sight of his own face—hurt, confused, and pissed off—as Castiel gives him orders like he's a soldier and not a suitor.

His final words to Castiel ring through the room, "I don't care if you're the Crown Prince, Cas—you don't get to treat me like I'm too stupid to understand whatever it is you're not telling me."

He doesn't dare to glance in Castiel's direction, even though he _knows _all eyes are on him. He doesn't need this right now, so he focuses on TV Castiel, who turns to watch him walk away, his face, empty of emotion, but his eyes, so full they could burst with tears at any moment.

The rose ceremony goes just how he remembers, except when they get to the end, something's different.

There's a voiceover—_his _voiceover—as Jo heads for the door with tears in her eyes.

"It was hard seeing her get sent home, especially after how excited she was about her date on Wednesday. She didn't expect it at all, and I'm sure I won't either when it happens, but..."

The footage cuts from her walking down the hall, to them, hugging in the garden, smiles on their faces. Dean knows _exactly _when that was—after her date when she spilled her guts about wanting to marry his prince.

His heart clenches, and a lump rises in his throat as tears burn his eyes. He hates this—hates it so _fucking _bad.

The video melts from that image to the toast at the end of the ceremony, then to black, with Dean's voice over-scoring it all.

"I don't blame Cas, obviously—I can't even begin to understand how hard this is for him—but she was blindsided, you know?"

Dean jumps when the clapping starts, but something deep down inside him won't let him celebrate with them. He can feel himself choking on the unfairness of it all—why does Meg get to be here when Jo doesn't? Or Michael, or April, or fucking _Charlie_, who doesn't the prince in the first place?

It's all just so _unfair_, and Dean wants out of here.

He grabs his robe from the floor and stands in the same motion, spinning towards the door as tears well in his eyes. No one moves to stop him, but their eyes follow despite the noise of the room, and it's not until he's almost to the door that a hand clamps onto his upper arm. Electric fire sears his nerve endings, setting his skin ablaze with it, but all it does is piss him off.

"Dean," Castiel's voice whispers, low and gravelly, but Dean's not having it, and he jerks his arm free with a withering glare before rushing for the exit.

He slips the robe on but doesn't bother tying it closed as the backs of his slippers slap the bottoms of his feet. Another pair follow further behind, and it has a mix of emotions swelling up inside Dean until he quickens his pace to a run.

God, how many times does he have to leave that room practically in tears? _And _with Castiel chasing after him?

He dodges the prying stares of the staff, ducking through them as he keeps his head bowed and robe held closed, and it isn't until he's almost to his door that he sees her. Susie stands right outside, arms crossed over her chest, a rather blank expression on her face, and Dean's just about had enough of this.

He huffs out a harsh breath, fed up and annoyed, and doesn't bother asking her what she's doing here before reaching for the door handle as Castiel calls his name a ways back.

"Dean," Susie says, and he thinks it might be the first time she's said his first name. Maybe not, but it's _definitely _the first time she's said it with any remorse.

Still, he pushes the door open.

"Dean, can I just—" Castiel's voice is shaky and strained—out of breath from running after him, but Dean ignores him, too.

"Me first," Susie tells Castiel, who stops in his tracks with his eyes trained on Dean, but he doesn't argue, stepping back with a nod as Susie forces her way in behind Dean and closes the door.

"Fuck, what do you _want_?" Dean yells, tired and weary and too damn upset to be anything but harsh. "To insult me some more? Maybe call me a liar _and _a cheater? _What_, Susie?"

But her face doesn't change, and she takes his outburst like any mother would—with a grace and calmness that makes him feel two feet tall. "I want to apologize," she says after a beat of silence, and all Dean's anger deflates with those four words. He sags like all the air has been let out of him, dropping to the edge of his bed with a defeated little whimper.

Then it all comes out—all his pent-up anger and pain—and pours from his eyes in a stream of silent tears.

He drops his face into his hands and feels it all, until Susie sits down beside him, wrapping his broad shoulders in her tiny arms. "It's okay, boy—let it out." Her voice is calm and soothing—sweet like his mother's—and it just makes him cry harder.

"Why am I always _crying_?" It comes out in a wet, teary burst of words, choked off by a sob, and Dean _hates _that he's become this person.

"Because you feel so much, my boy. You have a big heart, and you are so kind, and people take advantage." She strokes his back and wipes his tears, and Dean lets her, soaking in the comfort she offers. "You are a good, honest man in a world of cruel, deceitful people, and _that_ is what makes you so special."

Dean wants to believe her—he tries so hard to take her words and make them true—but he's not sure if he can. After all, he just pushed away and insulted every person he calls a friend; how is that good and honest?

And Castiel. What had the prince come to say? And is it something Dean really wants to hear?

Dean has no idea, and now he fears he'll never find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on Twitter at [allmystars_AO3](https://twitter.com/allmystars_AO3)  
~  
Follow me on Tumblr at [allmystars-i](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/allmystars-i)  
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Follow me on Instagram @allmystars_i


	23. WEEK FOUR - Monday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After this chapter, this fic will be going on hiatus for a couple of weeks. I need to read through it and remind myself what I've already written, and what needs to happen going forward. Sorry about this, but I'd really rather take my time and write the best story I can for ya'll.
> 
> I hope you're all staying safe and healthy! This chapter is short, but it's sweet. Let me know what you think!

The breakfast table is loud and crowded Monday morning, but Dean feels completely alone in his spot between Sarah and Kelly. They don't talk, and Dean's still not sure where he stands with Charlie and Hannah, so instead of forcing himself to interact, he stares at his plate and tries to force down an acceptable amount of food before he can escape.

Benny stands somewhere behind him, waiting for Dean to makes his first move, and Dean resents him for it, especially since he hasn't been able to squeeze him for information.

No one's telling him shit, and it's mostly the reason why Dean's refusing to try to talk to Hannah. If he gives in even a little, it's as good as saying what they're doing is okay.

With his cheeks stuffed full of pancakes, Dean listens to the conversations going on around chewing with passive interest.

"I'm supposed to meet with my stylists to get fitted for some new dresses, would you want to join me? It could be fun to get your opinion," Kelly is saying to Castiel, a mischievous smile on her face as she brings herself closer to him.

It's hard to tell what Castiel thinks since he's turned away from Dean, but the soft, apologetic tone of his voice tells Dean that his answer is a decisive _no_.

Dean doesn't wait around to watch any more attempts made by the others. Even if Castiel _does _turn them all down, it's painful to see.

He shoves a few more forkfuls into his mouth and washes it down with lukewarm coffee as he stands, not giving the slightest fuck when April shoots him a look that lets him know she's absolutely _appalled _by his manners.

Dean just gives her a chipmunk-cheek smile before he heads for the door with Benny on his heels.

Benny doesn't try to talk to him on their way back to his room. He must sense that Dean's not in the mood for it, and he keeps well behind, too. Rain sluices down the windows, blurring the dark gray sky and the grounds beyond.

For a second, Dean's heart sinks—he can't go out in that—and his plans for the day crumble at his feet. But, why not? It won't be the first time he's out in the rain, and it's not like he can't bring an umbrella. He's seen them in his closet, and he's pretty sure there's a rain jacket stashed in the back, too.

With a skip in his step, Dean hurries through the halls with renewed excitement. It's been a while since he's taken a walk in the rain, and even longer with a good pair of rubbers, so he's sure he'll love it just as much, if not _more_, than he did as a child.

Back in his room with Benny waiting just inside, Dean flings open the closet doors and moves right to the back. He knows they're in here somewhere, but, knowing Susie, she'll have hidden them from him so he doesn't do exactly what he's about to do. She'll be horrified when she finds out.

A flash of bright, sunshiny yellow catches his eye, tucked between an overcoat and the wall, and Dean grins. _Not that great at hiding, after all_, he thinks and pulls out the umbrella. He's sure Susie only left it here because she knows he'd go out anyway—or, expected he would—but either way, she's not wrong.

The thick, dark blue, wool coat is easy to find—front and center on the coatrack—and he pulls it on over his suit jacket without another thought, before stepping into a pair of bright yellow rain boots to match his umbrella.

He's just about to leave when he pauses. Benny's not going to stay back, but Dean doubts _he _has an umbrella on hand, so he searches the corners of his closet again and comes up with a boring black one. It'll do just fine.

"Here," Dean says on his way out the door, and Benny scowls, scrambling to catch the umbrella when Dean thrusts it into his hands.

"Dean, brother, we ain't going outside."

"I don't know about you, but _I _am." Dean walks away without a backward glance, his rainboots jolting his steps and squeaking on the marble floors.

Benny mutters all the way to the door, but Dean doesn't really listen, paying more attention to the rain sluicing over the windows in heavy sheets. Besides the downpour, the world looks quiet and still. There's no wind or wildlife, and instead of feeling lonely, it's peaceful—silent in a way Dean hasn't felt in a long time.

Dean pushes the glass french doors open with a shove, feeling the chilled air hit his face. For a moment, he just stands there, soaking in the sound of the rain sinking into the dirt and the way it plinks off the steel roof of the barn in the distance.

A sigh falls from his lips, and it just keeps on going as his shoulders sag and all the pent up tension leaves him. Before he even really decides to do it, Dean steps out, his umbrella hanging, closed, by his side, and tips his face to the sky.

The thick, gray clouds don't show any sign of letting up soon, but Dean doesn't really want them to. He hears an umbrella open behind him but pays Benny no mind as cool water hits his cheeks and runs down the bridge of his nose.

He stays like that until his hair is soaked and droplets start trickling down his neck. Only then does he open his umbrella and move away from the door.

The rain is coming down so hard, it bounces off the stone path, and when Dean looks over at the fountain, he cracks a tiny smile; every drop looks like it's coming from the ground, up. He turns his eyes back to the dirt, finding tiny worms working their way up to the surface, and little bugs scurrying for shelter.

What a simple life it would be, that of an insect. Nothing but food, water, shelter, and reproduction—easy.

Sometimes, Dean wishes it were that simple—only worrying about what he needs to survive—but, somehow, he always seems to come back to the same problem.

To be human, he needs more than that. It's not just about survival; it's about _living_. Pain, and heartbreak, and sadness, but also love, and joy, and kindness.

Dean just wishes there wasn't so _much _pain.

The earth squelches beneath his boots, caking them with mud, and streams of water run off the edges of his umbrella in little rivulets, but Dean is relatively dry—his umbrella works well.

"Hey, little birdy," he whispers to the tiny chickadee sitting on a branch when he reaches the edge of the forest. It cocks its head to the side in a way that's oddly familiar, and a spark of warmth lights in his stomach as his lips tilt up into a smile.

The branch bobs beneath its feet, swaying and bouncing for a second before the bird takes flight, finding shelter deeper in the foliage. Dean watches the rain bead on the leaves for a moment, filling the cupped curves before dropping away when it gets too heavy. He breathes in the fresh, earthy scent, smelling the grass, and pine, and the gentle decay of coloring leaves, still clinging to their branches and the last few weeks of autumn.

He thinks he hears his name in the distance, but the downpour drowns out anything he could mistake for a voice, so he doesn't bother turning. If Benny wants to get his attention, he can speak a little louder.

So, he carries on, doing his best to keep the umbrella from bumping against the trees, but the branches still reach down to graze the yellow, almost like they're mistaking him for the sun.

It's a nice thought, and it makes him smile a little, but he's nobody's sunshine.

"Dean!"

"Fuck, _what_?" he huffs. Can't a guy just take a nice, solitary walk in the rain? Instead of turning, he just squeezes his eyes shut as running feet squelch in the mud behind him, slipping and tripping, but Dean just waits.

"Dean," the voice pants, and with a start, Dean realizes it's Castiel. That's got him turning, and he's met with an absolutely drenched, out of breath, and flush-cheeked prince. "Just... one second, please." He bends double, resting his hands on his knees as water drips from the tips of his sopping hair and slides down the curve of his nose. Dean stares, baffled and entranced by the way his long, dark eyelashes come together at the ends in little points, and how damn good he looks soaking wet.

His blue eyes shine with panic, looking almost grey in the dreary light when he looks up at Dean, and it takes everything inside him to snap out of his love-sick daze. Dean blinks a few times, remembering his anger in an instant, and the simple fact that he can't even have _this_ makes it all the easier to harden himself to his prince.

When Castiel straightens up, he doesn't even bother with any pretenses. He just grabs Dean's arm and looks back at the palace. "We need to go back. I need to speak with you."

"No," Dean snaps, ripping his arm away and taking a few steps back as he scowls at Castiel's confused, worried frown. "No, I'm staying here. I _like it _outside, and I'm not going back." He doesn't even care that he's being petulant; he's tired of being kept in the dark and dragged around like he can't take care of himself.

"Dean—"

"No, Cas. I'm sick of whatever bullshit you've got going; I told you that, and it hasn't changed, so, _no_. Tell me what's going on, and why everyone's treating me like a fucking _flight risk_, or I'm done." He doesn't even mean to say it, but as soon as the words are out of his mouth, he knows he can't take them back; the dumbfounded shock on Castiel's face tells him as much.

"I-I..." Castiel shakes his head, blinking fast and searching the space at his feet for _something _to say. "Dean, I—"

When Castiel shakes his head again, Dean takes it as a refusal, and his stomach sinks to his shoes. Castiel's not going to tell him—he's making his choice, and it's not Dean.

Without another word, Dean shoves past him, his knees shaking and heart aching, knowing he can't back out this time. He can't stand here and be lied to and belittle for another second—he needs to get out _now_.

"Dean—_wait_!"

Dean's breath catches in his throat when Castiel pulls him to a stop, his strong fingers gripping Dean's elbow as he pulls him around. He can't look at Castiel, though, and keeps his eyes on the expensive button-down clinging to Castiel's chest and torso.

"There have been threats," he whispers, his fingers tightening where they hold Dean, and with those four, soft-spoken words, Dean's eyes lock on Castiel's. "A letter. It came Wednesday, just after the fan-favorites were announced."

Dean's breath freezes in his lungs, his eyes going wide as the world stops turning, and everything he suspected is confirmed.

"Threats against you and the others. There are people who think their opinions mean more than my own, and there's the potential that the group of you could be targeted."

Dean's thoughts go to his family in an instant, but Castiel seems to read it on his face before he can voice his fears. "At this time, there is no indication that anyone's families are in danger. At _this_ time, we're not convinced _anyone _is in danger, but we're not taking any risks."

Dean shifts from one foot to the other, not sure he completely understands, and acutely aware of Castiel's fingers, still clamped onto his elbow. "So, why...? Why were you pissed? And Hannah? Why is she—"

Dean cuts himself off when Castiel sags, the air in his lungs shuddering out in a long breath. It's like all the fight has left him, and he just looks so tired.

"I forget, sometimes, that you come from a different place. You haven't had to deal with threats to your life because of politics and business deals, and it's so easy to think of you as... as an equal. You're different than us—you're..." Castiel shakes his head, cutting himself off with a sad smile.

Dean wants to know what he was about to say, but he makes himself keep quiet, listening to every word like it's heaven-sent.

"Hannah forgets it, too, and it's not fair to you. You did nothing wrong, and I blamed you anyway; I'm sorry for that, Dean. I can't apologize for Hannah, but from the deepest part of my heart, I'm sorry."

Dean's breath catches, trapped behind the lump lodged in his windpipe, and just like that, all his anger and frustration melt away. He can see it in his prince's eyes, how much he means it, and just knowing that he's willing to put himself out there to keep Dean _here_, means everything.

Dean must take too long to reply because, after a few minutes of those big blue eyes staring into his, Castiel seems to lose his composure a little, his insecurities wearing his patience thin as he whispers in a shaky voice, "Will you stay?"

Instead of answering, Dean steps closer, offering Castiel some shelter from the pounding rain. It's a peace offering of sorts, and he can tell Castiel takes it as such when a soft, relieved little smile cracks his lips as he steps in close to Dean.

They're practically nose to nose, with Castiel's fingers still wrapped around Dean's arm and their breaths mingling in the space between them. Even soaking wet and disheveled, Castiel is the most beautiful man Dean's ever seen, and deep in his bones, he knows this is right. Staying here is right. Giving this a chance is right. But, more than anything, being with Castiel is _right._

That's what terrifies him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on Twitter at [allmystars_AO3](https://twitter.com/allmystars_AO3)  
~  
Follow me on Tumblr at [allmystars-i](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/allmystars-i)  
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Follow me on Instagram @allmystars_i


	24. WEEK FOUR - Tuesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How did two weeks turn into, like, five? Life is busy and now I'm working, but I'm still going to try to get out at least one chapter a week. 
> 
> Thanks to sparrowtail for betaing, brainstorming, and just straight-up kicking my ass for not writing what needs to be written. You're the best!
> 
> Anyway, this one's pretty long, so I hope y'all like it!

It’s so weird, the time between breakfast and lunch. What’s he supposed to do? Where does everyone go? Dean has no idea, but what he does know, is that he’s alone while doing it—whatever _ it _is.

The weather has taken a sharp turn into bitterly cold and miserable since last week, but Dean doesn’t really mind. He likes wandering the halls of the palace, empty and quiet, or filled with the ringing sound of polished shoes.

Except for today. 

Today, he wants to be away from it all and, knowing Charlie is off in the kitchens taste-testing fresh vegetables, and Hannah has joined the merry band of Dean-bashers in the sitting room, he heads outside, wrapping his jacket around himself and ducking his head as he runs through the icy downpour.

Mud squelches underfoot as he slips and slides, just barely catching himself on the barrack’s doors before he face-plants in the dirt.

Inside, the training area is warm and cozy, brightly lit by soft, yellow lighting high in the rafters. Dean closes the door behind him, feeling a shiver work its way through him as he turns to face the soldiers.

“Hey! Dean-o!” Victor shouts from across the space, a smile on his face as he hops down from a hay bale and saunters over. “How’re things?” He throws an arm over Dean’s shoulders, leading him around the sparring soldiers in the middle.

“Same as always,” he says with a shrug, already feeling better now that he’s not surrounded by people who want nothing more than to see him fail. 

“I bet.” Victor drops his arm and gives Dean a shove, who stumbles a few steps before catching himself on a post. “Thought any more about joining up?”

Dean has, actually. He’s thought about it a lot, and the more he thinks it’s the wrong time, or wrong choice, or that his family needs him here, the stronger his drive to _ try _grows.

“That’s why I’m here, actually.” 

Victor arches an eyebrow, watching Dean with keen interest as he flops back on a hay bale beside Caesar, who Dean’s only met once before. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” Dean lowers himself down beside them, careful with the silk suit Susie put him in this morning. “I was thinking maybe you could train me while I’m here, so when I’m kicked out I can join up right away—”

“Hold up,” Victor says, sitting up straight with both hands up in front of him. “Dean, don’t take this the wrong way, man. I know I said you could join, but you’re going to need a whole lot more training than I can give you in, what? Six weeks, maximum? You’ve got the drive, I’ll give you that, but the life of a soldier…” he shakes his head, eyes growing distant before snapping back to Dean’s. “I know your childhood wasn’t the greatest, and you learned how to fight for what’s yours, but—”

Dean scowls at the war-weathered soldier, not quite grasping what he’s getting at. “But, _ what_?”

Victor heaves a heavy, world-weary sigh and meets Dean’s gaze head-on. “Dean, you’re too _ soft_.”

First shock, then embarrassment burn through Dean faster than a forest fire in the middle of a drought, and he jumps up from his seat in an instant, feeling a lump lodge itself in his throat as righteous anger boils in his gut.

“I’m not soft!” 

Victor throws his arms up before letting them fall with a huff. “You are, but—”

Dean doesn’t stick around to listen to whatever follows that _ but_. He storms out, slamming the door behind him in a fit of humiliated rage, not even bothering to keep under any kind of cover as he marches straight across the grass through the rain. He’s soaked to the bone in seconds, but he doesn’t care. God, he’s never felt so foolish in his life, and now all the excuses he had for _ not _joining feel like obvious reasons. 

He was an idiot to think he could do it at all. Dean’s not soft, but he feels damn stupid.

His room is as empty as it always is this time of day, but somehow, it feels ten-times more lonely when Dean closes the door behind him with a soft click.

Anger still simmers in his veins as he shakes the rain from his hair and strips out of his outerwear, but there’s a steady swell of embarrassment rising up to snuff it out. 

Does everyone think he’s soft? Does _ Cas_? Sure, he feels a lot, and he indulges in a good cry every once in a while, but that doesn’t make him soft. If anything, it makes him _ human_.

But is that even true?

He goes over it in his head again and again as he crosses the room to fling open the curtains. The dull grey sky does little to brighten his room and nothing for his mood, but there’s restless energy vibrating inside him, making him feel trapped—cornered and panicky—and he needs to feel like there’s room to escape if he has to.

It’s like a buzzing in his ears as he paces in front of the windows—an electrical current fizzling inside him—and he needs to let it out, but how? He’s sick of crying, and he’s sick of feeling sorry for himself, but even as a child, his mom always just… let him cry it out. 

It’s how they did things, and despite his dad’s annoyance, Mary Winchester put her foot down on this one thing. Dean used to think she was the best, for letting him feel like that, but now? Now, he’s not so sure. Now, he thinks maybe _ feeling _ wasn’t enough, because it made him _ soft_.

The pacing doesn’t help; it only stokes his anger higher. He needs to burn some of it off, but how can he do that when there’s nowhere to go? Dean stops in front of the doors, pressing his nose to the glass and watching it fog under his ragged breaths. 

The grounds are empty, sheets of rain coming down harder than ever, but in that moment, all Dean wants to do is go out in it. To run as fast and as far as he can—exhaust himself to the point of collapsing so he doesn’t wind up and hit the next person who looks at him wrong. 

Is that even allowed? Is he _ allowed _to run in the grounds? He’s never thought about it before, mostly because the thought of going for a morning jog makes him want to break his own legs, but walking is fine, so why not?

His decision made, Dean strips out of his suit, not giving a single thought to where it lands as he tosses the expensive material around the room on his way down the hall to the closet.

It’s not even that hard to find sweatpants and a hoodie in their unmarked drawer—like Susie didn’t really try to hide them—and within minutes, he’s jamming his heels into a pair of stiff runners and heading out into the rain.

Dean doesn’t bother stretching before he takes off, his feet pounding the slick walkway before he veers off into the sopping grass. He’s soaked in seconds, from the top of his head, right into his shoes, but with every ragged breath and thumping stride, his anger cools.

His calves ache and lungs burn, but he keeps going. Up over the rolling hills, grass and mud coating his shoes until it’s all he can feel. Dean doesn’t bother looking over at the barracks as he passes, letting it slip past in his peripheral with only a small stab of annoyance.

Instead, he lets his mind wander. To Hannah and Charlie, and the fact that he hasn’t spoken to either of them since last week. To the competition—the fact that Dean hasn’t gotten a single date yet when others have had two or three—and how complicated everything is.

It tears away at his self-esteem, and he pushes himself harder as the chilly air burns in his lungs. His breaths puff out as visible clouds, obscuring his vision as he crests the next hill, but there’s nothing to see there. Just grass, and trees, and grey.

He thought things were going well with Castiel—great, even—but come _ on_. What does he have to do to get some scheduled one-on-one time with his prince? Just the thought drives up his blood pressure, his annoyance mounting the more he thinks about it.

Dean pushes harder, his teeth clenched and thoughts spiralling, because all he can think about is Charlie cheating on Cas, and Hannah hating him for the pettiest bullshit, and Castiel just… just not choosing _ him_. 

It’s stupid, and dramatic, and not even all that true, but the more he thinks about it, the faster he runs, and the hotter his blood boils until he’s sprinting down a hill, and—

“Fuck!” 

Dean’s feet slip out from under him, and there’s about half a second between falling, and realizing he won’t stop when he hits the mud, where his heart sinks and his breath snags in his throat.

Then he’s skidding—rolling and sliding—over mud, and grass, and stones. 

_ Shit, shit, shit. _

He gasps when a rock jambs into his ribs, and grunts as he keeps rolling. His knees, his arms, his ribs, and everything in between throbs with new bumps, bruises, and scrapes until he crashes into a rock at the bottom of the hill.

A shout bursts from him when something pops in his left shoulder. It throbs, and for a moment, he just lies there, covered in mud, and blood, and grass stains, breathing shallow, painful breaths. His anger still burns under his skin, thick like tar but slow like chilled molasses.

After a soaking few minutes of shivering in the dirt, Dean thinks he might just be able to drag his sorry ass back to the palace. So, he picks himself up, breath catching when he moves too fast, and limps his way up the hill.

“Stupid, dumbass son of a bitch,” he mumbles to himself, clutching his left shoulder and favouring his right leg. “Why the hell would you think _ running _is a good idea?”

Fuck, he’s probably missing lunch, too.

When he makes it to the top of the hill, his shoulders fall as exhaustion sweeps through him. Damn, he ran far. The palace is barely a dark lump in the distance and there’s a good few miles of soggy hills between here and there.

With a heavy sigh and resignation chilling his anger, Dean starts walking. Adrenaline dampens the pain, but even that starts to fade about ten steps in, and the rain does nothing to wash away the thick layer of mud clinging to every part of him. 

If he hadn’t looked like a street rat before, he sure as hell does now.

“What the hell, Winchester?” Benny yells when Dean’s close enough to be recognizable. 

His shoulder throbs, he’s dizzy as fuck, and he’s got one hell of a blister on his ankle, so he’s in no fucking mood to deal with a lecture.

“I’m going to my room,” he mumbles, not even sure why he bothers, but he brushes past Benny anyway, leaving a trail of mud in his wake. 

Benny grabs his arm—his bad one—and Dean doesn’t quite manage to hold back a yelp when the joints grind. 

“You—” Benny turns him around, fingers on his other shoulder this time, and searches his face and clothes. “What happened?” His voice is low and serious—scarier than Dean’s ever heard—and Dean swallows back his retort.

“Went running.” He shrugs with his good arm but winces anyway. “I tripped—fell down a hill.”

Benny examines his shoulder as he talks, rotating it here and there, before, with a sudden, excruciating tug-twist-pop, his shoulder sets back into place.

“Holy mother-fucking _ fuck_,” Dean shouts, clenching his teeth as the white-hot pain ripples through him, but it’s only a few seconds until he realizes it actually feels better now. 

“Go get showered,” Benny says, lifting a hand to shove him away before thinking better of it and letting his arm fall to his side. “And keep that thing in a sling for a few days—I’ll have one dropped off. You should ice it, too. And heat. Ice, then heat.” Benny looks him over one more time, eyes shrewd. “I’ll send someone up to look at those cuts. They can give you painkillers if you need them.”

Dean nods, beyond grateful for someone like Benny, but doesn't turn away just yet. He’s dead tired, and as caked as the mud is, it’s not what’s weighing him down. Everything aches, from his head to his toes. “Thanks, Benny.”

“Go on, then, brother. You’re missing lunch.”

With more effort than should be necessary, Dean makes his way to his room, ignoring the cleaning staff that trail along behind him with a mop and bucket.

Dean’s just rinsing the shampoo from his eyes, struggling to get himself clean with a bum shoulder and cuts that sting like crazy, when he hears a knock down the hall.

Must be the nurse.

“Give me a sec!” he shouts, before swatting at the tap to turn it off and stumbling out of the shower. “Ow, fuck,” he mutters when he hits his hip off the counter. Who knew only having use of one arm could be so debilitating?

Dean looks down at the neat, white towel waiting for him on the rack with a scowl. There’s no way he’s getting that wrapped around his waist with his shoulder like it is. He could try the robe, but that’ll get in the way of his shoulder. Hmm…

Fuck it.

“I’m in the bathroom,” he calls. It’s not like the nurses here aren’t trained for this crap, and he’d bet his left testicle they’ve seen plenty of naked… well, _ testicles_. “The door’s open; just come in!”

Dean reaches for the towel when he hears footsteps coming down the hall and doesn’t bother to turn back around when the door opens. Sure, they’re probably used to nudity, but that doesn’t mean Dean needs to give them a full-frontal.

With his good arm, he rubs the towel over his hair. He feels loads better, actually, with his tumble taking up most of his thoughts now. His anger isn’t so persistent and, besides the aches and pains, he actually feels kinds of good.

The door opens behind him. “I just need some pain meds, and Benny says I should wear a sling, but whatever you say is good—”

Dean’s words catch in his throat when he turns to face the nurse and finds a set of too-blue eyes on him instead. Every muscle locks up, his blood freezes in his veins, and it takes at _ least _ ten seconds before Dean registers what’s going on.

“Jesus fucking fuck,” he mutters, dropping his arm—still clutching the towel—in front of himself, because holy fuck, _ Cas _is standing in the doorway, looking shocked as shit.

Heat floods Dean’s cheeks so fast he’s surprised he doesn’t pass out, and humiliation makes him almost sick to his stomach. 

“I—” Castiel says, voice choked and face strained. His knuckles are white where they clutch the door handle, but he doesn’t move away. It’s like the prince doesn’t know where to look, so he just looks everywhere, but when he finally reaches Dean’s eyes, it’s with a whispered, “Fuck.” He blinks a few times, shakes his head, and stumbles out, pulling the door shut behind him.

For some reason, the only thing he can think of is the fact that that’s the first time he’s ever heard Castiel swear, and it has laughter bubbling in his chest until it bursts from him in a high-pitched, manic giggle.

What the hell just happened?

Of course, he knows damn well what happened; he just can’t believe it.

Dean stands there, rooted to the spot for more minutes than he can count, with his towel clutched over his crotch. Water still drips from his hair, running over his forehead and down the back of his neck. The tickling feeling is what jolts him out of his stupor—he needs to get a move on because the nurse still hasn’t arrived and Dean doesn’t need to flash anyone else today.

As quick as he can, Dean pulls on a fresh, fluffy, white robe, making sure to tie it together with a double knot—his embarrassment swells just thinking about his junk hanging out in the chilly, post-shower air that—

Y’know what? Never mind.

Even in the robe, Dean shivers, but he hurries out of the bathroom anyway, his bare feet sinking into the carpet as he picks his way around the mud stains.

He’s so flustered by the last six minutes that he doesn’t even realize he never heard his bedroom door open again until he sees Castiel standing by the fireplace.

“Dean, I—” Castiel cuts himself off, his eyes catching on the cut marring Dean’s cheek. “You’re hurt,” he says, stating the obvious, but Dean doesn’t do anything more than blink.

“Why—” Dean’s voice catches and he clears his throat before trying again. “Why’re you here, Cas?”

“I heard you were hurt.” He jerks his shoulders in the stiffest shrug Dean’s ever seen, and it’s so ridiculous that it lifts some of the tension in the room.

“Did you, now?” Dean offers him a crooked smile and pushes his free hand through his hair, making it stand on end. “Is there anything you don’t hear about?”

“I suppose there is, yes, but Benny made sure to find me straight away.” Castiel shifts from foot to foot, hesitating for a moment before colour floods his cheeks and he looks at his shoes. “I’m sorry for…” He gestures down the hall and Dean feels the manic laughter bubbling up in his chest again.

He chokes it back, nodding once and giving a half-hearted shrug before hissing when pain lances through his shoulder.

“Dean—” Castiel’s around the couch and across the room before Dean can blink. “Here, let me…” His hand hovers over Dean’s cheek, so close his skin tingles from the not-quite touch. “Let me clean this for you. Let me—” Castiel cuts himself off again, but Dean can hear the words Castiel doesn’t say. _ Let me take care of you_.

Blue eyes burn into his, but instead of answering, Dean sits on the edge of the bed and lets the robe fall to his waist, low enough to expose all his cuts and scrapes.

He just barely catches the way Castiel’s adam’s apple bobs, his cheeks flushing before Dean drops his gaze down to his bare toes. 

“They’re not that bad—it’s my shoulder that hurts the worst, but even then, some pain-killers will do.” Dean tries to shrug again, forgetting, and his breath catches.

“Right,” Castiel says, a sarcastic lilt to the word, and he gets to work, disappearing down the hall for a minute before coming back with a first-aid kit in hand. “What happened?”

Dean blushes from head to toe, and being mostly naked doesn't hide a thing. Castiel raises an eyebrow, a smirk curling one side of his mouth as he lowers himself onto the bed beside Dean and opens the kit.

“I, uh… I fell.”

“You… _ fell_?” Castiel looks up through his eyelashes, incredulous, and Dean huffs.

“Yes, okay? I fell.” Dean rubs his hand over his forehead, feeling the cut on his cheekbone twinge, but he ignores it. “I went for a run, and I wasn’t paying attention, and I tripped. Rolled down a hill and dislocated my shoulder on a boulder.”

His sulky tone is clear even to his own ears, but the soft, rumbling chuckle that rolls from Castiel has his stomach fluttering, and his sour mood, lifting just a little. 

“Your shoulder should be in a sling, but that seems to be the most severe injury you sustained. Hold still.” Castiel grips Dean’s wrist with gentle fingers, and Dean freezes, only registering that he was fidgeting when he stops.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, then hisses out a breath when Castiel presses a cotton pad soaked in rubbing alcohol over a gash on his forearm. 

“Sorry,” Castiel whispers with a smile. He works in silence after that, and Dean can’t think of anything else to say, so he doesn’t. 

Instead, he watches Castiel do his thing and tries not to read too much into the soft fingers brushing warm skin, or the way Castiel is just _ so _gentle. Dean doesn’t know what it is exactly, but there’s something between them, pulsing and electric, and the closer Castiel gets, the harder Dean’s heart pounds.

“There,” Castiel whispers, but he doesn’t pull away. He’s so close, Dean can feel his breath on his lips, and smell his honey-sunshine scent. It’s like summertime, aged whiskey, and sweet cherry pie all rolled into one, and just about everything Dean’s ever wanted. He’s so close—if he just leans in a little closer…

“Why’re you here, Cas?”

It takes everything inside him to lean away, knowing this isn’t the time—isn’t the place—to do something so stupid, but he needs to know.

“I told you—”

“No, why are _ you _ here? Benny said he’d send a nurse, so…” He raises an eyebrow, but Castiel doesn’t bother looking at him as he maneuvers Dean’s arm into the sling.

“I’m trained in first-aid.” He gives a half shrug, his blue eyes almost grey with the pale light shining through the open windows. “My military service was primarily spent as a medic, rather than a soldier, though I’m trained in combat as well.”

“You prefer healing rather than hurting,” Dean whispers, something like awe in his voice, and it’s not a question, but Castiel nods anyway as a humble blush colours his cheeks.

“I suppose that’s true; I don’t like causing pain, though it’s more unavoidable than I’d like.” Castiel’s eyes flick up to his and a shiver zips down Dean’s spine. His shoulder still aches, but he’s too distracted by the five o’clock shadow darkening his prince’s cheeks to worry about it. “Maybe avoid running in the rain from now on.”

“Is that an order?” Dean whispers, and even he’s shocked by how gravelly his voice sounds, but God, he can’t help it. With Castiel so close, touching his bare skin and taking care of him like… well, like no one ever has—how can he not feel the space between them like a physical presence?

How can he not want to close the gap?

“Hmm…” Castiel hums, leaning closer as his eyelids droop and he smiles, close-lipped and soft. “Will you listen if I say it is?”

“Probably not.” A thrill shoots through him when Castiel sways closer, his heart skipping a beat, as he watches Castiel’s pupils dilate. 

“I didn’t think so.”

Dean barely hears the words, spoken so softly they’re drowned out by the blood rushing in his ears. His hands shake, and blood sings. They’re so close; just a breath apart—

They both jump away when there’s a knock at the door, hearts racing and more than a little flushed. 

“Your highness? Lunch is being served.”

Castiel shoots to his feet, every movement jerky and awkward, and Dean’s heart sinks as disappointment floods him. _ So close_—they’d been so damn close.

“Here,” Castiel says, handing Dean a bottle without meeting his eyes. Dean takes it, but when their fingers brush, Castiel jerks away like it burns. 

It’s like a bucket of ice water over his head, and a sick knot twists in Dean’s stomach when Castiel turns away. He’s still talking, saying something about taking the pills with food and making sure to keep the sling on for a few days. He says a nurse will check up on him before bed.

Then he’s gone, leaving Dean half-dressed, a bit rumpled, and more confused than ever.

Dean doesn’t say a word as he leaves the sitting room after dessert, exhausted and annoyed.

April got the date.

April got the date instead of him, and now there’s a sour feeling twisting his gut. Castiel had barely looked his way all through dinner, and Dean can’t figure out what he did wrong, or if he did anything wrong in the first place. 

Maybe it has nothing to do with him? Maybe Castiel wasn't thinking about him at all?

Either way, he’s ready for bed. His shoulder hurts, there’s a dull ache in his legs, and his ribs aren’t faring any better. It hurts to breathe, and he needs more pain pills if he’s going to get any sleep—lord knows Susie doesn’t need anything else to be pissed about; she almost ripped his head off when she saw the gash on his cheek, to begin with. 

The soft, golden glow of the corridors grows darker the further he gets into the palace, and they’re almost too dim to see by when he reaches his room, so he nearly jumps out of his skin when someone moves in the shadows.

“Dean, I—”

“Jesus _ Christ_, Hannah!” Dean holds the hand not trapped by his sling over his heart, feeling it stutter behind his rib cage. “What the hell?”

“I want to apologize…” She blurts, then trails off when her eyes catch on his arm tucked inside his jacket, held in by the sling. “What—”

“I fell,” he says, huffing his annoyance. Fuck, can they just get on with it? He’s tired.

“Oh.” She doesn’t say anything else, just standing with her hands folded in front of her and her eyes looking everywhere but at him.

“Did you need something?” Dean asks, and even to his own ears, it sounds snippy, but she hasn’t exactly been kind to him lately.

“Yes, right.” She straightens her shoulders, steeling herself for whatever bullshit apology she’s about to make. “I came to apologize. I… I’m sorry, Dean, for being so unkind. I wish I could say there is a reason but, truthfully, I was—” She cuts herself off, her voice catching in her throat, and Dean’s eyebrows furrow. 

What? She was _ what_?

“I was jealous,” she whispers after a moment’s pause, and finally meets his eyes. “I see the way he looks at you; the way he talks to you like you’re the only person in the room—in the world, even—and that doesn’t excuse my behaviour; my family would be so disappointed in my actions but, Dean, if you will let me, I’d like to make it up to you.”

Dean doesn’t do more than blink for a moment, too overwhelmed by everything she just said. The way Castiel looks at him? There’s no ‘_way_’ that’s different from how he looks at the others, surely. And was that even an apology? Shit, he thinks there was a ‘sorry’ in there somewhere, but it sounded more like a fuck-ton of excuses than anything.

Dean just shakes his head, more to clear it than to refuse her, but everything is just so confusing and he really doesn’t want to deal with this right now.

“Look,” he says, rubbing his index finger over his eyebrow as a headache starts up behind his eyes. “I’m exhausted and I really don’t have the energy to forgive you right now, so…” Dean gives her a one-shoulder shrug and shifts his feet. 

Hannah’s face falls, and for a fraction of a second, guilt starts to creep in, but Dean cuts it off quick. He needs to take care of himself right now.

“Please, Dean? Just… please? Let’s talk.” Dean stares for a moment. What’s he supposed to do when she looks at him like _ that_? Her puppy-dog face could rival Sammy’s. 

With a heavy, drawn-out sigh, Dean concedes. Kind of. “Ten minutes, then I’m going to bed.” Her face brightens for half a second. “I don’t forgive you, Hannah; you were a shit friend, but… ten minutes.” Before he can change his mind, he pushes through his bedroom door with Hannah close behind. 

Dean strips out of his jacket and tosses it aside, though doing it is a lot more of a struggle than he’d like, but it buys him some time while Hannah gathers her thoughts.

When he’s wasted all the time he can, kicking off his shoes, and setting them neatly by the door—one thing Susie won’t be giving him shit for tomorrow—he turns to Hannah and waits for her to go ahead.

But, as soon as she opens her mouth to speak, she snaps it shut again, visibly agitated as she starts to pace.

As he waits, Dean wonders what it must be like to be a royal having to apologize to a commoner. Or, to be a royal in general, actually. It’s got to be exhausting, never knowing who to trust, and now that he thinks of it, he can almost understand why she did what she did. She doesn't know him yet—not really—and the fact that she forgets his upbringing so easily further proves that.

Sure, she was shitty to him, but there’s a point where actions really _ can _ be put down to upbringing, right? Not condoned or forgiven, but acknowledged as coming from a place of ignorance. That’s what’s happening here, right?

Before he can talk himself out of it, Dean swallows his pride and offers her a lifeline—albeit, a temporary one, because this conversation still needs to be had. She’s already apologized, explained her feelings, and made an effort. What she can do for him now is just _ listen_.

Dean starts talking before Hannah can stumble over any more half-formed explanations.

“Why haven’t I gotten a date yet?”

Hannah’s mouth snaps shut with an audible click, taken aback by the sudden shift in conversation.

“Why haven’t you got…”

“A date. With Castiel.” Dean huffs, already more embarrassed than he should be as he peels off his socks. “You say you were jealous because he pays so much attention to me, or whatever, but I’m the only one who hasn’t gone on a date yet.” Dean shrugs, trying to play it off like it’s no big deal, but even with his matter-of-fact tone, the truth of his words cuts deep.

Hannah takes a moment to think, choosing her words carefully, before she lowers herself onto the bed beside him, almost exactly where Castiel had sat only hours earlier. 

“I have known Castiel for years, Dean. Almost our entire lives have been spent together, but…” She trails off, leaving whatever follows that ‘but’ unsaid. “He spends so much time with you outside of the schedule—so much more than with the rest of us—that I would argue those add up to the equivalent of, like, _ four _dates.”

“That’s a bit excessive,” Dean mumbles. He’s sure he’s not the only one Castiel seeks out in the middle of the day. In fact, he’s seen Castiel with others. “And not true.”

“Pfft,” Hannah scoffs, rolling her eyes as she crosses her arms over her chest. The soft, purple knit sweater looks more comfortable than anything Dean’s ever seen her in, and it makes her less intimidating somehow. “Don’t be ridiculous. There’s a reason you’re still here and there’s a reason you’re a fan-favourite.” There’s something almost bitter in her tone, but Dean chooses to ignore it. “The people aren’t stupid Dean, or blind. We can all see what you refuse to.”

Dean wants to believe her—he wants to see what she says they all see—but all he can picture when he closes his eyes is the back of Castiel’s head as he ignores Dean’s existence.

“Time’s up,” Dean says, ignoring the surprise on Hannah’s face as he pushes up from the bed.

He’s tired and she’s not saying anything of use to him, so it’s time for her to go. 

“So, are we okay?” Hannah’s eyes go round and pitiful, like a small child who just got caught doing something wrong.

“I… I don’t know, okay? No. We aren’t, but maybe someday. Maybe tomorrow.” Dean shrugs, one shoulder jerking up to his ear, and Hannah nods before heading to the door. 

“Goodnight, Dean,” Hannah says, the door held open just a crack.

“Night.”

With one last, hopeful look, she leaves, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

All the air in Dean’s lungs wooshes out of him, leaving him exhausted and deflated. He can’t forgive her just like that—he _ won’t _be a pushover. 

He won’t be soft.

Boundaries, he decides. Boundaries are what will get him through the rest of his time here, starting with his so-called friends.

Dean strips out of his clothes, popping a couple of pain pills before sliding under the covers with a tiny smile on his lips.

This is how he’ll make it through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on Twitter at [allmystars_AO3](https://twitter.com/allmystars_AO3)  
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	25. WEEK FOUR - Wednesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all, I know it's Friday and this is two days late, but it's also 8k words so... forgiven?  
This one is a rollercoaster! So much fun to write, but a lot happens! Secrets and lies and all that fun stuff, yay! Anyway, just so you know, I'm writing for the DCBB and need to get my shit together for that fic, so I might not update next week, but I'll try for every two weeks or so if I can manage.  
Once again, thanks to sparrowtail for betaing this for me! You're super awesome!  
Let me know what you think!

“What’s got that mind of yours spinning, boy?” 

Dean blinks, refocusing on Susie as she applies his camera makeup and fluffs his hair.

“What? Oh, nothing. It’s, uh… it’s nothing.” He shakes his head, both clearing it and brushing off her question, and she gives him some kind of shrewd I-know-you’re-lying-but-I-can’t-prove-it look but doesn’t push.

It really is nothing, actually. He’s just thinking about how tightly wound he’s been for, well, the last three weeks. Dean’s been so worried about everyone else’s issues—how their actions disgust or appall him—and he thinks it’s time to let that go. Stop taking everything so damn personally, anyway, and he thinks the best place to start is with Charlie.

Don’t get him wrong, he doesn’t condone cheating in any way, shape, or form, but Charlie’s relationships are her business, and he doesn’t need to be sticking his nose anywhere it doesn’t belong, especially considering Castiel hardly gives her a second look most of the time.

“There you go, Mr. Winchester; all set for breakfast.” Susie smiles, close-lipped and proud, with her hands on her hips as Dean steps off his platform in his expensive leather shoes. 

“Thanks, Suse,” he murmurs while turning to the mirror. His arm is in a sling now, though outside his jacket, but he still looks damn good in a charcoal, three-piece suit and deep green tie that, as Susie says, makes his eyes pop. “You think I could wear the black cufflinks instead?” Dean asks, fiddling with the shiny gold metal at his left wrist. “These ones catch the light like mad, and it’s really fucking annoying.”

“They’re _ obsidian _, boy, and no. Those match your suit.” Susie turns away with a decisive nod and starts packing away the seven different bottles of hairspray she brought. 

“How would black not match?” Susie’s head whips around so fast, he hears her neck crack, but before she can correct him, Dean rolls his eyes. “Fine, _ obsidian _, whatever.”

Her glare intensifies, but she answers anyway. “The gold matches the tie.”

“Again, so would bl—”

“Mr. Winchester, if you would just deal with it? Please, I don’t have the black ones.” 

Dean snaps his mouth shut, guilt flooding him as soon as he sees the defeated exhaustion in her eyes, and the way her shoulders fall. She looks like she’s at the end of her rope, and instead of pushing the issue, Dean steps forward and wraps her in a one-armed hug.

To his surprise, Susie’s arms immediately snake around his waist, holding him tight. She doesn’t cry—too stoic and strong to let herself break while working—but Dean feels the sorrow in her like its own physical entity. He doesn’t ask how her husband’s doing; he knows the answer is _not_ _good_.

“Alright, boy, get going. It’s time you eat something—you’re too thin!” She pushes him away, forcing a scowl as Dean rolls his eyes, and neither of them mentions the cufflinks again.

“Dean!” 

Dean’s head snaps up when he hears his name down the hall, and his heart does a few somersaults when he sees Charlie jogging toward him in a deep green jumpsuit that, oddly enough, matches his tie.

“Hey, can we talk?” they both say at the same time, speaking over each other in the most awkward, _ them _thing to do. Dean snorts and Charlie giggles, but they step off to the side to do just that.

“So, uh… I’ve been thinking,” Charlie starts, her eyes dropping to the floor when April walks by, giggling and excited—probably heading out for her date by the looks of her, all done up and pretty. “You were right, about the cheating thing.”

Of course, Dean already knows that, but he lets her speak anyway, leaning up against the wall and crossing one ankle over the other.

“I think I knew that on Sunday, but I didn’t want to admit that what I’m doing is wrong, you know? I… I think I’m in love with her, Dean. How can that be wrong?” She looks up at him with round, pleading eyes, so desperate for him to tell her she’s allowed to be in love that it breaks his heart. 

“Char…” He takes her hand in one of his, giving it a soft squeeze before dropping it when he hears footsteps clicking down the hall. “What you do with your relationships is none of my business, and I think I just forgot that for a bit so, yeah, I’m sorry, too.” Dean blushes, terrible with apologies, and fiddles with the fraying edge of his sling.

“So, we’re good, then?” There’s more hope than hesitation in Charlie’s voice now, and Dean decides that yeah, they’re good. He’s missed his best friend.

“We’re good.”

“Awesome!” She bounces on the balls of her feet before spinning around, her hair fanning out in all directions. “Come on, Winchester, let’s go see what Michael’s got stuck up his ass today.”

Dean smiles and pushes away from the wall, following behind as the weight of loneliness lifts off his chest. He hadn’t even realized it was there but, just like that, everything feels a little more normal; a little more like it used to. A little more like it should.

“So, I was talking to some of the soldiers—”

“Dorothy,” Dean interrupts, smirking around a forkful of lasagna as Charlie rolls her eyes.

“Yeah, _ Dorothy _,” Charlie snaps but keeps up the chatter to distract Dean from the pair of empty seats at lunch. There aren’t nearly as many cameras here, most of them on location recording every painful second of Castiel’s date with April. “Anyway, I was talking to Dorothy, and she said—”

Dean’s head snaps up when the doors open and April steps in, face flushed and bright-eyed, effectively cutting Charlie off. Charlie huffs but doesn’t try to catch his attention again as April squeals and drops into the seat beside Meg.

“Oh my God, he’s just so _ perfect _!”

Dean tries not to, but he can’t help but listen in as April describes, in great detail, just how _ perfect _Castiel is. He refuses to look at her, but even as he tries to force down his lunch, he can see her flapping hands and shining eyes in his peripheral, and it turns his stomach.

“He took me to the art museum down by the coast—he just knows me so well, you know? It wasn’t the one with the ripped-off, half-done sculptures, either. We went to the good one, with all the royally-commissioned art.”

Dean can’t help but laugh under his breath. Fuck, if he wanted to see royally-commissioned art, he’d take a walk around the palace—her date wasn’t that special.

That’s what he’s telling himself, anyway, but he can’t deny the stab of longing to walk through brightly lit halls filled with priceless art, Castiel’s hand clutched in his…

“Anyway, so we did that, and then, because we weren’t here for breakfast,” April says, her voice getting louder and louder to make sure everyone hears. “He took me to the restaurant on the top floor, and we had _ brunch _. God, it was so romantic.” Her face goes all dreamy, and Dean just barely holds back a snort when Charlie gags beside him.

“_ So romantic _,” Charlie drawls in her snootiest tone and, shit, Dean can’t help the laugh that bursts out of him. 

The room falls silent, everyone turning to see what’s so funny, and April glares at him, cheeks flushed and annoyed, but he doesn’t care. God, it’s good to have his best friend back.

“Something to say, Winchester?” April asks, one perfectly plucked eyebrow arching as she purses her lips.

Dean opens his mouth to snark back, but Charlie beats him to it, leaning forward with her elbows on the table and her head cocked to one side. “What? Like he can get a word in edge-wise? You won’t shut up long enough for anyone else to hear themselves think, so…” Charlie sits back in her chair, holding her hands up in a _ what can you do _, kind of way.

April doesn’t bite, turning back on Dean as soon as Charlie stops talking. “So, you have a guard-dog now? Real manly, huh, Dean?” She smirks then, malicious and vengeful without Castiel here. “Wow, you really _ are _soft, huh?”

Dean’s breath catches in his throat, every part of him locking up as he wracks his brain for how she could _ possibly _know about that. There’s no way she was in the barracks when Victor said it, and he didn’t tell anyone, so—

Then she looks down at his crotch and _ shit _. Did… did Castiel say something? Did he tell her he walked in on Dean naked? Did they laugh about it like Dean’s some big joke? Or is she just making some offhand comment about his dick?

God, he could fucking _ cry _.

But he doesn’t.

It’s almost too easy turning his sadness into anger—like flipping a switch from hot, burning tears to cool, emotionless rage. It shouldn’t be so easy, and it shouldn’t feel so good, but it steadies him, sharpening his tongue as his jaw ticks. 

“Funny, coming from a cold-hearted fraud,” Dean says, just loud enough for her to hear. And Charlie… and maybe the camera zooming in on his face. “How’s that charity of yours going?”

April’s mouth snaps shut as she blushes a deep, beet red. Yeah, Dean knows about the scam she’s got going on—he’s _ been _to that soup kitchen. Once. Only once, because what they serve for food is more akin to motor oil, and twice as toxic.

“Fine, thank you,” she murmurs, probably trying to save face in front of the cameras. With that, she turns back to her food, her excitement over her date officially snuffed out.

“Shit, Winchester. No one’ll be accusing you of going soft any time soon.” Charlie looks at him with both eyebrows raised and something like concern in her eyes. “You should be careful saying stuff like that in front of the camera; someone might kill you in your sleep.” She slurps at her soup, sounding totally unconcerned now.

Dean shrugs, picking up his fork, but he doesn’t take a bite yet. He watches April for a moment—her chin tucked and spoon hovering above her bowl, her soup untouched as she stares, unseeing, at the breadbasket. “It’s the truth.”

It’s fucking cold out, and Dean hates it with a passion. 

God, it never gets this cold. Why is it so _ cold _? He huddles deeper into his jacket as he hurries across the grounds to the stables, his breaths puffing out in front of him as the frosty grass crunches beneath his shoes. 

The sun shines bright and unobstructed, but Dean can smell the chill in the air. He’s never liked winter, what with shitty heating and sky-high electricity bills, but he’s used to shivering under heaps of ratty blankets and huddling with the rest of his family to keep warm. 

This is different, though—this time, he’s got a nice, cozy _ palace _to go back to. For now, at least. Something about it makes him immeasurably sad, but he can’t pinpoint why. There are any number of reasons, but he’s too damn cold to worry about them right now.

“Hey,” Dean says, stuttering on a shiver as Charlie swings the barn doors open for him before slamming them shut just as fast. He rubs his bare hands together, trying to generate some heat, then winces when he jostles his shoulder. “Fuck, I can’t wait to get this sling off.”

“Shouldn’t’ve thrown a temper tantrum,” Charlie snarks over Remmie’s back as she strokes his flank.

Dean gives her the finger before heading over to Cookie’s stall. She shakes her head at him, bobbing her nose as Dean scoops up an apple from the bucket by the door. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he whispers, feeding it to her before stroking her nose with stiff fingers. “You hear how mean she is to me?” Cookie sniffs, ruffling Dean’s hair as he grins, pressing a kiss to the soft spot between her eyes.

“Lovin’ up on Castiel’s horse isn’t going to make him more into you, you know?” Charlie says, not at all bothered by the withering glare he shoots her way. “I’m just saying; you’re getting really attached to that horse.” She shrugs, but her grin falls into a frown after a moment and she looks up at Dean with worried eyes.

“What?” He stops petting Cookie and gives Charlie his full attention. “What is it?”

“I, uh… I heard something.” She shrugs again, but it’s stiff and forced this time—so obviously awkward, and un-Charlie, that Dean’s heart skips a beat. “After you left, April was saying that she—she and Castiel kissed. You know, after their date.”

Dean’s heart sinks to his shoes, disappointment and an odd feeling of betrayal souring his stomach and making him feel sick. “He what?” Dean says, and the devastation in his voice is clear even to his own ears.

“I’m pretty sure she’s lying,” Charlie rushes to reassure him, but there’s a buzzing in his ears, and he’s not quite sure if he believes her. “There’s the ‘no touching’ thing remember? She couldn’t—”

“Castiel touches me all the time.” It’s barely a whisper, but Charlie snaps her mouth shut, both of them realizing that, if Castiel is willing to hold Dean’s hand, why not others’, too? Why hadn’t he thought of it before? Obviously, if Castiel’s trying to get to know them well enough to _ marry _, he’s going to want to touch them.

God, Dean’s so fucking stupid. So, so, _ so _naive. He can feel the tears burning in his throat but, before they can well up, he shuts it down, blocking out his pain and masking it behind a cocky smile.

“Nah, there’s no way.” Dean laughs, and it’s just easy enough to sound genuine, even if Charlie doesn’t believe a word of it. He can’t really blame her; he doesn’t believe it either.

“Good, Dean?” Sarah asks from across the table, and Dean’s head snaps up, cheeks swollen with fettuccini noodles and eyes wide when he meets hers.

“Hm?” He chews what’s in his mouth, awkward and decidedly cow-like, as she grins, shaking her head as her ruby-red lips close around her fork.

“Your food. It’s good?” When Dean just gives her a quizzical look, she rolls her eyes. “You haven’t said more than two words since dinner started.”

“She’s right, you know; you usually don’t shut up.” Charlie doesn’t even look at him when he glares, but he can see the tiny little smirk in the corner of her lips.

Truthfully, he’s been so caught up in obsessing over April’s claims of kissing Castiel, wondering and worrying that they’re true, that the only way he’s able to choke anything down at all, is by stuffing his face as fast as he can. 

So, instead of answering Sarah, he just offers her a smile and twirls his fork in the few leftover noodles, making a point not to look across the table where Castiel and April are sitting close, heads bent together, looking far too comfortable in each other’s space for it to be anything but intimate. 

Dean’s slice of pie sits untouched on his plate, the delicate china held with the most precarious grip as he sinks into the sofa, his stomach turning with every fan-favourite called out that isn’t him.

“Let’s take a moment to count down our list before we get into the final three,” Duma says, though she’s standing inside the palace this time, back to the open doors, as the crowd shouts and waves behind a low barricade. Straight-faced guards in dark suits with ear-pieces stand watch, making sure no one gets out of hand.

“Number eleven went to Lily Sunder, who won the lowest spot through her vile attitude towards last week’s favourite, Dean Winchester.” The crowd cheers in the background at the sound of his name and heat rises under Dean’s collar.

“Number ten is Balthazar Salazar, who most don’t remember beyond his less than graceful exit.” Duma smiles, tight-lipped and professional, but Dean can just imagine how that went. “Number nine is Michael Haven. Nothing to be said on him.” Dean snorts, catching more than one glare from around the room, but Charlie snickers, so whatever.

“Kelly Kline gets number eight this week for being, and I’m quoting, ‘Too damn aggressive.’ Don’t ask me what that means.” Duma says the last part under her breath, shaking her head as she flips the cards. 

“Number seven—Meg Masters, for being mean to Dean Winchester, uh…” Her voice lifts at the end, as if in a question, and Dean huffs—did she not prepare this at all? It’s like the first time she’s reading through her cards—

Shit, it’s the first time she’s reading through the cards! That means… that means none of this is screened first. Those cards could say _ anything _. Dean’s blood pressure goes through the roof, his stomach turning as the full weight of the implications crashes down on him.

“Number six! Charlie Bradbury. The fiery red-head gets next to no screen-time beyond her friendship with Winchester, so she isn’t all that well-known.” Duma quirks an eyebrow, looking straight into the camera. “Dean seems to be a popular man!”

Dean flushes bright red, what feels like all the blood in his body rushing to his cheeks, and his fingers clench on the little dessert plate. He _ won’t _look at Castiel. He won’t. No matter how much he wants to.

“Damn it,” Charlie mumbles from Dean’s right. “Went down one.”

That gets a laugh from Dean, but then he catches sight of Castiel smiling over at April, who’s practically sharing the chair with him, and his smile drops.

“Five is Sarah Blake. Number Four was Joanna Harvelle, who was sent home last week—how sad was that?”

The crowd cries out their pain and even Dean feels a twinge in his heart for Jo. There are so many others that could’ve gone home instead of her—that don’t deserve to be here nearly as much as she does—but that’s not Dean’s decision to make.

“Who’s ready for the final three?” Duma says, turning her back on the camera to face the crowd, and Dean swears he can hear them yell through the walls. “Okay! Okay, number three goes to someone near and dear to this kingdom’s heart—someone very special to the prince, you could say. Number three is her royal highness, Hannah Becket!”

Hannah, on the other side of Charlie, smiles in the most diplomatic way she can, but when she meets Dean’s gaze, there’s something excited there—hopeful and happy. 

Dean’s heart drops—only two left, and one of them is _ April _ . God, he doesn’t want to win again but, fuck, he _ really _doesn’t want April to win, either. 

“Number two goes to…” There’s a literal drumroll from somewhere behind the camera and Dean’s heart stops. Everything else quiets to a hush as Duma opens the white envelope with a soft rustle. “April Kelly!”

Relief and dread swell up in equal measure because it’s _ him _ . Again. He’s the favourite _ again _, and somehow, it’s the biggest relief. 

But it also means that if he’s the favourite next week, he’ll go it alone. Just him and Castiel at the interview—no one to hide behind or take the attention off of him. He knows it’s presumptuous to think, but _ what if _? 

He balances his plate in his lap and takes a bite of the fresh peach pie just to keep himself busy, but it tastes like paste, sticking to the roof of his mouth when he tries to swallow.

“That means, for the second week in a row, your favourite is Amarellino’s very own, Dean Winchester!” To Dean’s utter horror, a camera turns on him, wide-eyed, pie in his mouth, and arm in a sling. It’s the most unflattering footage they could ever capture, he’s sure, and he watches as his face darkens to a deep, cherry red onscreen.

Scratch that, what they play next is the most unflattering footage they could capture.

“If the viewers are wondering why Dean’s arm is in a sling,” Duma says, eyes bright in the golden glow of the grand entrance. “_ This _is the aftermath of what happened.”

The screen changes to Dean hobbling back to the palace, his knees buckling and left arm clutched close. He’s covered head to toe in mud and blood, smeared together to form quite an unsightly picture. Dean cringes back in his seat, then winces when his shoulder smarts. God, could it get any more embarrassing?

The answer is yes. Yes, it can.

Before he knows that’s happening, there’s a camera in his face and a microphone held close as Charlie dives out of the shot. Dean nearly smears pie all over himself when he jumps, only just catching it before it falls out of his lap.

“So, Dean,” the cameraman says before Dean even knows what’s going on. “How does it feel to be the fan-favourite for a second week in a row?”

“Uhh… um, it—” Dean stutters and stumbles over his words, overwhelmed and uncomfortable as his heart rate ratchets up and his palms start to sweat. He searches to room for some help—_ any _help—but only finds it in a pair of shining, too-blue eyes. 

Castiel stands behind the camera, flushed and looking all too happy with the attention Dean’s getting. Not maliciously so, but like he’s glad Dean’s being recognized. Despite Dean’s feelings—the bitter stab of betrayal and the sadness at not getting to kiss him first—warmth bubbles up inside him, making him feel safe and cozy with Castiel there. Like he belongs here, somehow.

“It’s strange,” he says, almost without meaning to, but it’s true; everything about this is strange. “I never pictured myself as… as a favourite, you know? I’m just a kid from the village; I’m not—I’m no one’s favourite, and I really don’t—”

“Evidently, that’s untrue, but is there anything you’re nervous about? Or not looking forward to? Anything you’re _ not _ liking? Being the favourite is a big deal, after all.” Dean huffs, annoyance surging again when the guy cuts him off. Shit, he doesn’t even want to do this interview, the least they could do is let him _ speak _.

“This,” Dean says, putting emphasis on the word as he points to the floor. “This right here. I don’t like this.” These pop-up interviews are the worst of it all, and the fact that he doesn’t consent to it makes it ten times worse, but before the cameraman can speak, a voice cuts over him.

“That’s enough,” Castiel’s deep, gravelly voice says, slicing through the tension as he steps up beside Dean. “You’re not here to make him uncomfortable, so that’s enough.” 

Then, the cameras are gone, and the fan-favourites broadcast is wrapped up. It all happens so fast it takes Dean a minute to realize Castiel is sitting beside him, close enough that their knees brush.

With a rattling exhale, Dean sets his pie aside, done with it before he even starts. 

“Are you alright, Dean?” Castiel asks, voice soft enough that only Dean can hear. “You barely touched your pie.”

But when Dean looks at Castiel, he doesn’t see the kind, sweet man he’s come to know. He doesn’t think of all the times he’s looked at Dean like he’s the only person in the room or the fact that he brought him to his secret hideaway for comfort. 

Dean doesn’t think about any of that, because all he can picture is Castiel kissing April, and it breaks his heart, over, and over, and over again.

“I’m not feeling well,” he tells him, and it’s true. He feels like he could throw up every time he looks at Castiel’s mouth, and he hates it. Hates April, and these stupid feelings, and this whole _ stupid _competition, because that’s what it is—a competition to see who can win the prince’s love.

“Oh? Is it your shoulder?” Castiel asks, worry flooding his voice, but before Dean can tell him it’s not, Castiel turns away, waving across the room for a member of staff. “Could you get Dean some pain medication, please? Perhaps some ice for his shoulder, as well?” The woman nods, giving Dean a small, sympathetic smile before she hurries away.

Dean opens his mouth to call her back—to tell her it’s fine, and refuse any more pills—but Castiel’s leaning closer, three fingers prodding at the joint hard enough that Dean hisses and jerks away.

“Hm,” Castiel hums, eyebrows furrowed. “Would you mind taking off the jacket? I would like to see your range of motion—”

“Fuck, Cas, _ stop _!” He holds his free hand up to ward him off, feeling overwhelmed, frustrated, and beyond embarrassed with all the attention. Castiel freezes, eyes wide and a little hurt, and he pulls his hands back.

“Dean, I’m—”

“No, it’s… it’s fine, I just—” Dean shakes his head. He’s had enough of this—he’s tired, and so done with his whole night. So, why is he still here? Shit, he can leave whenever he wants, so why _ hasn’t _he?

With that, Dean stands, not even bothering to say goodbye to anyone as he leaves, weaving through the tables and chairs as his heart races and his body aches. 

He doesn’t want their pain pills, though; he doesn’t need them, and he sure as shit doesn’t need anyone taking care of him—he does well enough on his own, thank you very much.

Dean tosses and turns for hours, tired, but not really, and to top it all off, his shoulder hurts like a bitch. His back, ribs, and left knee too, actually, and he’s kicking his own ass for not accepting the pain pills when they were offered.

Dean flips over with a huff and screws his eyes shut. He’s going to go to sleep whether his body likes it or not, damnit!

“Psst.”

His eyes snap open, staring into the gloomy darkness as his heart races. Did he just…

“_ Psst _!”

Dean sits up so fast his head spins, a spike of pain arcing through his shoulder as he searches the shadowed corners of his room. “Wh-who…”

“It’s me, you idiot!” 

By the door—the _ garden _door. He looks there, finding red hair, dark as blood in the pale moonlight, crouched just inside. “Charlie?”

“Yeah, come on, get up.” She steps closer, straightening to her full height until she can reach the lamp on his bedside table. 

Dean cringes back, blinking in the bright, yellow light that fills his room, curving along the floor, up table legs and over the sofa, until everything is burnished gold and warm honey.

“What’s goin’ on?” He rubs one eye with his fist, shivering a bit when a cool breeze brushes his bare chest through the open doors.

“We’re going out! Didn’t I tell you?” Charlie huffs, rolling her eyes, but Dean’s pretty damn sure it never came up.

“No,” he deadpans, narrowing his eyes as he pulls the sheet up higher. “You didn’t.”

“Oh,” Charlie says, dropping the annoyance, and crosses her arms over her chest. “Huh, thought I did.” Then she bobs one shoulder in a half-shrug. “The soldiers are waiting with the car; you need to get dressed.”

Dean hesitates for a moment. This is a bad idea, he _ knows _that—they’re not allowed off the property without consent, and even then, it’s after dark. But… the soldiers are with them, and he’s sure they have permission…

Oh, why the hell not?

Dean slides out of bed to the sound of Charlie’s muffled _ whoop _ and heads for his closet.

Ten minutes, and several outfit changes later, Dean’s balancing on the top of the wrought iron bench in his garden, struggling to lift himself over with a bum shoulder and a bad knee.

“Come on,” Charlie whispers, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she looks around. “And don’t rip those jeans; they’re actually nice.” Dean shoots her a glare, which she pretends not to see, and lets himself fall the rest of the way, landing with a soft thud on his good side.

“Don’t rush me, Bradbury; I’m already injured.” He pushes himself to his feet, dusting off the ass-huggers he’s wearing and straightening out the faded Zepp t-shirt Charlie wrangled up from somewhere. He’s got a dark blue bandana tucked in his left, back pocket—on Charlie’s insistence, which he doesn’t get, but whatever—but even that was an ordeal. 

“Dark blue? Or maybe white?” she’d said, holding them both up. “Or, maybe mustard?” At that, she’d given him a sly grin that he’d rolled his eyes at. “Fine, fine—dark blue, it is. Now—left or right?” He could tell she was talking to herself, but he’d still raised an eyebrow, not understanding a word of it, but she’d eventually decided to shove the blue one in his left pocket and tie the mustard one around his head, tossing the white one aside “For another time.”

So now, here he is, arm still in a sling, walking through the palace grounds at not-quite midnight, freezing his ass off as his rich best friend drags him away to some undisclosed location. If someone had told him a year ago that this is what he’d be doing today, he’d have laughed them right out of the kingdom.

He almost doesn’t see the car parked by the front gates, dark and silent as it is, and there’s barely a moment for him to stop and think _ I’m really doing this. I’m sneaking out in the middle of the night. I’m leaving _before the car is pulling away from the curb with Dean inside.

“Hey, Dean!” Someone shouts from the other bench, and when Dean finally manages to tear his eyes away from the window, he finds Dorothy, Caesar, Jesse, Victor, Anna, Ash, and Gordon staring back at him. 

He nods his greeting, smiling with nervous excitement as his mind whirls with all the ways this could go wrong. He could be kicked out of the palace for it, surely? Or, worse, get into some kind of other trouble—he’s not exactly the luckiest when it comes to avoiding accidents—so why, oh why, did he agree to this?

_ Because you need to, _ a soft, encouraging voice whispers in his ear. He’s not sure if it’s supposed to be the angel on his shoulder or the devil, but either way, Charlie’s handing him a drink, and he’s not refusing and, fuck it—it goes down so smooth. 

No turning back now.

“So, Charlie got through to you then?” Dorothy asks, her long, dark hair done up in a tight, intricate knot—it’s edgy and matches her dark eyeliner perfectly.

“Didn’t even have to beg!” Charlie says before Dean can open his mouth. “He’s so much cooler since we got our claws into him.”

“Oh, shut up,” Dean snaps, though the grin turning up his lips belies his annoyance. “I was plenty cool before you came along.”

“Sure you were,” Charlie says, but Dorothy gives him a sympathetic nod and an easy smile. “Oh!” Charlie shouts, practically jumping in her seat and scaring the crap out of Dean. “Almost forgot.” She digs through her tiny handbag—made from used beer bottle caps and broken mirrors—and pulls out a black pencil-looking… thing.

“Seriously? Charlie, come on,” Anna says, staring at the little pencil-stick with a tired look. “Just leave the poor guy alone.”

“What? Hell no! He’s doing it.” Charlie turns to him, pencil-stick in hand, and with a sudden, heart-stuttering jolt, he realizes they’re talking about him.

“What? What’s happening?” He straightens up, feeling far too restrained with his seatbelt and sling, and looks between the chatting soldiers, Anna, and Charlie, who pulls of the cap, revealing that it is, in fact, a pencil.

“Come here,” Charlie says, cupping his chin and holding his head still as she brings the pencil closer to his eye. “This’ll make those big, green eyes of yours pop like crazy!”

Dean jerks away—what the fuck is she _ doing _? “You trying to poke my eye out?” Dean swats her hand away when she reaches for him again, and she huffs, annoyance clear in every part of her body language.

“I’m not going to take your eye out, you big baby—it’s part of the look.” She twirls the pencil between long, black-tipped fingernails, and arches a perfectly plucked brow.

“Oh, just let her, Dean-o; it’s not that bad.” Dean cuts his gaze over to Victor, who cocks his head to one side with a crooked grin. 

“Fine,” Dean pouts, letting her hold his face still. “But if you—”

“Look up,” Charlie says, cutting him off, and he does as he’s told, making sure his bottom lip sticks out far enough for her to see as the pencil pulls at his waterline. 

It’s uncomfortable, and makes his eyes water and twitch, but when Charlie pulls back to examine her work, she beams. “Winchester—and I say this as a fucking _ lesbian _—you look hot as hell.”

“She’s not wrong,” Caesar agrees, nodding as he tips his shot glass at Dean. “Not as hot as this guy, obviously,” he jerks his head at his husband, Jesse, who nudges him back. “But if I were single…” he lets out a low whistle and Dean’s cheeks flush, delighted by the compliment.

The rest of the drive is filled with laughter and music, drinking and joking, and by the time the car pulls to a stop about an hour from the palace, the music pumping in Dean’s ears isn’t just their own.

They’re at a club!

Dean’s heart skips a beat when he looks out the window and finds a dark, discreet building, identifiable only by the numbers 1-3-4—weird name, but okay. There’s a line up down the block, and the music pumps louder every time the door opens, bright, pulsing lights spilling onto the sidewalk and reminding Dean of something else—of rainbow glass and honey-sunshine.

He shakes it off, putting all thoughts of the palace, and Castiel, to the back of his mind, no matter how insistent the guilt is, trying to force him back to both.

“Come on!” Victor shouts, waving them on, but not to the end of the line like Dean expects. Instead, they waltz right up to the bouncer in their ripped jeans and paint-splattered shirts. Victor has a short conversation with the mountain of a man—their heads ducked close to hear over the bass—before he shows them inside.

“How—” Dean looks between Victor and Charlie, but settles on the latter—he’s still a little pissed at being called _ soft _, after all. 

“He’s ex-military—a friend of theirs, I think.” Charlie shrugs, her voice raised to an almost-shout as they step through the door and into the cramped, smoky room. 

Well, _ room _ is a bit of a stretch—it’s more of a closet, really. The words _ coat-check _ are scrawled on a whiteboard by a little counter, and there’s a guy taking cover charge at a table by the door. 

For a moment, Dean panics—he doesn’t have any money! There’s no way they’ll let him in. God, he knew he shouldn’t have come—he should’ve stayed at the palace where he’s safe, and following the rules, and _ not _creating a problem for everyone else—

“Calm down, pretty boy—cover’s dealt with.” Gordon slaps his back, shoving him along and jostling his shoulder—not enough to actually hurt, but he still winces like it does.

Dean lets out a soft sigh, his shoulders relaxing as the tension melts from his body. This is alright—he can be happy here. He can have fun tonight.

Charlie slings an arm around his waist—the other around Dorothy’s—and leads him forward. “You’ll love this—watch!”

“What?” Dean shouts back, barely hearing her over the pounding. It sounds like… shit, it sounds like _ drums _, and when they step down into the lowered part of the club, Dean’s sees why.

On a stage on the other side of the room, sit three huge drums, covered in neon, glow-in-the-dark paint, being pounded on with a fury that matches the pulsing beat of the music. 

Dean gasps as it engulfs him, pulling him in like the moon pulls the tide—round and round the earth in an intricate dance—and his heart thunders in his chest, full of adrenaline and top-shelf whiskey. 

“Like it?” Dorothy yells.

“What?” Dean shouts back, but he doesn’t really care, because he can feel his heartbeat and hear his blood pounding in his ears.

“Dance with me!” Charlie says, handing him a test-tube of something purple that smells like fake-grape, and he downs it, never feeling so alive and free as the alcohol burns through him and lights him up. Charlie pulls him into the middle of the dance floor, guiding him as they jump and move and sway, grinding hips and pumping fists, and just feeling the press of other sweaty human bodies.

It’s beautiful, and wonderful, and the next four shots are all fun colours too, and the _ paint _ —God, the paint—coats him in minutes, and everything inside Dean is screaming at him to _ never let this go, never let this go. _

So, he lets go, falling into the heart-wrenching, clenching, pounding pleasure of this night. He lets himself forget his past, and their pasts, and everything wrong in the world for one night, and he just lets himself _ be _.

“Want another drink?” Charlie shouts in his ear after a while, taking the empty test-tubes from his fingers and shimmying her hips when he opens his eyes.

The room spins around him, dipping and swaying, but it feels good—not at all like he’s losing control, but more like he could conquer the world.

“Two!” Dean holds up two fingers with a lopsided grin before he’s swung away, Jesse and Caesar pulling him off to a table, sweating and laughing as the three of them fall into low-back chairs with thin, spindly legs. 

“Time for a breather, man,” Caesar tells him, shooting him an eyeliner-darkened wink, and when Dean looks around, catching snippets of faces bathed in reds, greens, and blues, he sees that Charlie was right; everyone in the club wears some variation of the striking eye make-up.

“Do y’all come here often?” Dean asks, still looking around as he leans forward on one arm. The t-shirt Charlie forced him into stretches tight over his chest and shoulders when he does, and he doesn’t miss the way the guy a table over looks his fill.

“Once a month or so—the whole _ courting _ thing has been stressful—”

“To say the least!” Caesar interrupts, huffing as he takes a swig from his rye and ginger. 

Jesse rolls his eyes but keeps talking. “So, we decided it’d be good to let off some steam. Some more than others, obviously,” he says, nodding to where Victor, Gordon, and Anna dance like they’re in some kind of weird, eighties porno.

“Is this what it’s like? Being a soldier, I mean.” 

“It’s… enlightening.” Caesar says, pausing for a moment before nodding like it’s a fitting word. “You learn a lot about the world, and the kingdom, and how it’s all run. But, you know, it’s more than just that—you learn about people, too. The lengths they’re willing to go to get what they want.”

Dean blinks, startled by the depth of that answer. He’d expected something more along the lines of _ challenging _ or _ rewarding _ but, somehow, what he gets isn’t disappointing, either.

“The things people do for power is astonishing, yeah, and the fighting is terrible, but it gives you purpose, too. It did for me, anyway.” Jesse looks over at his husband, eyes soft as a smile twitches at the corners of his lips.

Dean focuses on the two of them, watching how they lean on each other—how, occasionally, they look each other’s way like there’s some kind of inside joke that no one else is privy to. Dean would never think of these two as soft, but there’s something about them that’s a little more… open—accepting, maybe—and it gives Dean hope that he might be able to fit in after all.

“Do you, uh… do you think I could do it?” Dean asks, his hesitation clear in the way he looks at his hands when he speaks—how he feels his cheeks flush and voice waver. 

Instead of answering right away, the other men appraise him, looking thoughtful and sincere.

“There’s a lot you’d need to learn,” Jesse tells him, and Dean’s hope crumbles. “But you have a good heart, and a passion for doing what’s right, from what I’ve learned. I don’t see why not.” He shrugs and looks to his husband, who’s nodding his agreement.

“But Victor said—”

“Victor says a lot of things—he’s not the best at reading character.” Caesar offers him a reassuring smile and suddenly Dean feels like he could do anything—_ be _anything—he wants to be. These are his people, he knows it in his heart, and he could belong to something bigger than himself if he chooses.

“There you are!” Charlie shouts over the music as she saunters up to them, both hands filled with test-tubes. “I got you _ four _,” Charlie says, handing the shots to Dean with a wink and a grin. “Don’t say I never do anything for you.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Dean solutes her, taking the shots and downing two at once—raspberry-lime, yummy.

“You think Mr. Prissy-Prince would come out with us if we asked?” Charlie says, leaning into Dean’s side as she sips at the neon orange shot. Dean scowls at the name, but she’s not talking to him and, besides, her eyes sparkle like she said it just for Dean’s reaction.

Jesse shrugs, leaning back in his chair and dropping an arm over Caesar’s shoulders. “If pretty-boy, here, asked him? Hell yeah, he would.” He nods at Dean, smirking, and Dean just rolls his eyes.

“He’s too damn _ proper _ for that,” Dean says under his breath, but by the laughter around the table, they all hear despite the music.

“I don’t know, Winchester; that prince of yours would do just about anything for you.” 

Dean’s heart drops, then stutters and just about stops before pounding against his rib cage like it’s trying to escape. Caesar’s just saying that—he has to be because there’s no way he’d know. There’s no _ way _Castiel would come to a place like this just for Dean. 

There’s just no way.

So, Dean rolls his eyes on a grin. “You feeling alright? ‘Cause that load of bullshit’s got to be making you feel a bit queasy.”

Caesar just shakes his head, a little bit sad, and a little bit resigned as he scratches at the worn grain with his fingernail. Red paint flakes off, and he dusts it onto the floor. “You just go on believing that.”

Before Dean can respond, Charlie drags him out of his chair and back onto the dance floor as a new song comes on. “Oh my God, Dean! This is my _ song _! We have to go!”

Dean goes without a fight, his fingers clutched in hers, as his other hand holds his shots. It’s a bit awkward with his arm in a sling, but he makes it work. Before long, though, he’s downing those, too, feeling the tingling warmth of strong liquor and sweet bumble berry-orange, his lips stained with the fiery colour.

Charlie cackles, throwing her head back as she pulls him closer. “You look like you just gave an Oompa-Loompa a blowjob!”

“What?” Dean screws his face up at her, but she just snickers, shaking her head and twirling herself under his arm.

“Never mind! Just dance with me!” So he does, spinning her round and round and round as one song bleeds into the next. It’s the best Dean’s felt in weeks—hell, _ years _—and he lets himself sink into it, feeling the buzz of alcohol and the freedom of knowing he has somewhere to go back to as he closes his eyes and tilts his face to the domed ceiling. 

“Hey!” Dean drops his chin, searching the strobe-shattered darkness for the shout, only to find several eyes trained on him. “Hey, you’re Dean Winchester!”

Instead of answering, Dean flashes a cocky grin and tilts his head to the side, swaying his hips as he closes his eyes again and turns away, but the pretty brunette follows him. Soft, small hands pull him around, and his stomach drops as he cringes away.

“God, you’re so much hotter in person,” she says, her dark eyes glowing, and with Dean’s arm in a sling, he doesn’t quite manage to catch her hands before they glide up his chest and over his shoulders.

“Yeah,” Dean says, more than a little uncomfortable as he backs away with an awkward laugh. “If you could… _ not _do that?” 

“Come _ on _, dance with me!” She flashes a smile and shimmies her hips, and Dean scrambles to find an excuse to be anywhere else.

“Thanks, but—”

“Lisa, there you—dude, what the fuck are you doing?” Dean stumbles when a hand lands square in the centre of his chest, shoving him back a few steps into a crowd of other dancers. 

“Hey, you spilled my fucking drink, asshole!” 

“S-sorry,” Dean says, his heart skipping a beat as the pissed-off boyfriend comes at him again, but Dean blocks his next shove, sending his arm flying to the side. He’s got a few inches on the guy, and at least twenty-pounds, but with his arm in a sling and several shots in, fogging his brain, he’s at a decided disadvantage, especially when the guy’s friends show up.

“Come on, man, I don’t want any trouble,” Dean says, a friendly smile on his face. He _ really _doesn’t need this right now, especially after sneaking out of the palace in the middle of the night.

“You should’ve thought of that before hitting on my girlfriend.” They’re standing chest to chest—practically nose to nose—as the girlfriend in question tugs uselessly on his arm.

“Matt, come on!” He shakes her off, then—

Pain explodes in Dean’s jaw, knocking him to the side a few steps as his hand flies to his face. 

Like a slow-building rumble, Dean’s anger growls inside him, growing louder and louder as he shifts his jaw and cuts his eyes at Matt, who’s smirking like an idiot. He’s had just about enough of people pushing him around.

“You’re going to regret that,” Dean says, quiet enough that he shouldn’t be heard over the din, but Matt’s eyebrow quirks. Dean pulls off his sling, rolling his shoulder and ignoring the twinge as he steps closer, molars grinding and heart thundering.

“Oh, yeah? What are you g—” Dean’s fist connects with a sickening crunch, sending Matt to his ass, blood pouring from his nose as Dean shakes out his fist. Adrenaline pumps through him—he shakes with it, and every part of him locks up as a ringing starts in his ears. 

It doesn’t make Dean feel better, and now he just wants to leave, but as he turns to find the others, all hell breaks loose.

A shout goes up, then three or four, as the soldiers dive into a brawl, fists flying and tension sharpening the air as more people get involved. The sounds of violence have Dean’s stomach turning, and when he sees Ash take a right-hook to the cheek, he winces.

But Dean’s panic spikes, adrenaline surging through him when a shock of red hair crosses his line of sight. “Charlie—”

It’s like it all happens in slow motion—Dean snatches Charlie up, lifting her off her feet and twisting her behind him as a fist flies their way. He’s not sure which side it comes from, or who throws it, but when it hits him in the side of the head, he drops like a stone.

With his ears buzzing and vision blurring, Dean hits the ground, and he doesn’t remember much after that.


	26. WEEK FOUR - Thursday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are starting to pick up! I'm so excited!
> 
> Thanks again to sparrowtail for beta-reading this for me! You're the best!
> 
> Anyway, screw the posting schedule because I'm terrible at it and it makes me less motivated. This chapter is almost 10k words so I hope that makes up for a bit longer wait-times.
> 
> Let me know what you think!

“_Dean! Dean, get up, we need to go!_” 

“_We’re dead; we’re all dead—shit!” _

_ “If something happens to him on our watch, Gordon—” _

Dean feels it like a cleaver to the head when he’s dragged up, and his shoulder... God, his shoulder fucking _ kills_.

“_Get him in… come on, Dorothy—” _

Dean groans, rolling his face away from the light as he blinks in the early morning sunshine—it barely crests the horizon, but from the angle Dean sits at, it blinds him. “Shit,” he mumbles, clutching his temple where it throbs. “What happened?”

He looks around, finding eight stricken faces staring back at him, then a collective sigh of relief when he scowls at them.

“Bar fight, big guy. You dropped about two minutes in,” Ash tells him, sitting back in his seat as the car speeds down the road. 

“Fuck—yeah, I remember,” Dean says as it all comes rushing back, and he takes the cloth Charlie holds out to him, stained with his blood, and presses it to his temple. He closes his eyes and lets out a deep, shuddering breath—it has to be almost breakfast time, and there’s no way their absence has gone unnoticed for this long. “They know we’re gone yet?” 

No one answers for a long time—so long that Dean thinks they might not have heard him—but Charlie lets out a ragged breath, meeting Dean’s eyes when he opens them, and nods. She looks worried. Beyond worried, actually—she looks terrified, and Dean’s heart sinks like a stone, but he doesn’t get a chance to respond because, just as he opens his mouth, they pull into the palace courtyard.

Dean’s breath catches, shock bleeding into everything else because there’s got to be at _ least _ two hundred—no, _ three _hundred—soldiers getting ready to march.

Caesar lets out a heavy, world-weary sigh and drops his hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Time to face the music, Winchester.”

Dean’s barely out of the car before shouts ring out in the courtyard and his heart starts pounding, going ten to the dozen behind his rib cage as the gravity of the situation starts to sink in. 

They’re led through the bands of soldiers, arms gripped with bruising strength, up the steps, and into the entrance hall before anyone can say a word. 

It’s near-silent inside—a single, panicked voice is the only thing that breaks the quiet—but when Dean is steered forward with a hand between his shoulder blades, the voice cuts off.

He can’t even imagine how this looks to Castiel—Dean’s got blood pouring from his temple, smudged make-up and is covered in neon paint. He’s a mess; the exact opposite of royal decorum, and shame slams into him so hard and fast, he nearly chokes on it. What was he thinking?

For a moment, Castiel doesn’t speak. He just stands there, a piece of crumpled paper in his fist and his mouth open like he’s about to say something, but doesn’t. His eyes give Dean a quick once-over, making him shift on the spot, but they lock on his so fast and hard that the fury Dean sees there almost knocks him off his feet.

A rattling breath escapes Castiel, and Dean can see that he’s warring with himself—relief and anger battling to be heard above the other. 

When Castiel turns to face him, though, his expression is flat and stoney. He’s perfectly composed despite his rumpled button-down and day-old trousers. His hair looks like he’s been running his fingers through it all night, but his eyes… 

God, those beautiful, too-blue eyes. They’re exhausted—creased with whatever emotion he’s holding back—and so painfully unhappy that Dean swears he’ll do whatever it takes to make it better—

“Sir, I—” Victor starts, but Castiel cuts him off with a sharp finger, held up for silence. He never looks away from Dean, though, as he approaches, and with every step, his clenched jaw becomes more apparent.

Dean swallows hard but doesn’t dare to speak. He can see the anger now, trampling over his relief like it’s barely a leaf in the breeze. It’s icy cold fury like Dean’s never seen before, and it chills him to the bone.

“Call off the national guard. Let them know they’ve been found.” The words are clipped and cold, directed at someone behind Dean, though Castiel never breaks eye contact.

“Right away, sir,” Victor says, starting to turn, and Castiel’s eyes snap away for only a second, cutting through the others before coming back to Dean.

“_Not _ you. You will stay where you are. _ Silent_, unless directed to speak.” From somewhere behind Dean, footsteps retreat outside, presumably to call off the search party.

And what the fuck is the national guard? Dean’s heart drops to his shoes as dread sinks in, and the realization of how serious this is, with it. They fucked up _ bad_.

“Cas,” Dean whispers, but he doesn’t know what to say. Everything hurts, inside and out, and he just wants it all to go away.

Castiel closes his eyes, and he can’t hide the way he shakes when he pushes his hand through his hair. He doesn’t speak, but the way his throat convulses tells Dean he wants to. So Dean tries again.

“Cas, I’m—”

“Don’t,” Cas snaps, his icy gaze boring into Dean. “Don’t speak.”

Dean blinks, taken aback by the order. Annoyance bristles under his skin as he arches an eyebrow at his prince.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he says, and he’s not sure where it comes from exactly, but the shock on Castiel’s face tells him he’s made a mistake. Too bad he doesn’t fucking care.

“Excuse me?” Castiel’s deep, gravelly voice only gets lower, the tiny curve of his lips, doing nothing to mask his anger. Dean’s poking the lion, he knows, but, fuck it, he’s not going to be ordered around all his life if he does end up with Castiel, so there’s no way they’re starting with that shit now.

“We went out, Cas. So, what? I’m not a fucking prisoner here, and neither are they,” he says, throwing his thumb up to point over his shoulder at the others. “We were out for a few hours—who fucking cares? Calling the _ national guard _ is the biggest overreaction I’ve ever seen, and just last week Meg through the mother of all temper-tantrums because her stylist filed her nails the wrong shape.”

“You’re forgetting who makes the rules here, Dean!” The shout bursts from Castiel, startling everyone in the room. They jump, snapping to attention in an instant. “And it’s not you! Now, if you can’t accept that, then you can just—”

“What? I can _ what_, Cas? ‘Cause I’ll go pack my shit right now.” Even as the words leave him, he wants to call them back, but he can’t. To do so would be giving in, and he _ won’t _give in—not with this. “Actually, you know what? I don’t have anything here, so I’ll just walk out those doors right now and you’ll never hear from me again.”

Castiel’s breath hitches, and something in his eyes shifts, but only for a second. If Dean were a betting man, he’d throw in everything he has on what he just saw being heartbreaking, gut-wrenching fear. 

It’s like they’re the only two in the room, standing almost chest to chest as anger bristles and snaps between them—so focussed on each other that their audience fades from their minds.

“The rules are in place to protect you,” Castiel grates, teeth clenched and voice quiet, but it just pisses Dean off.

A bark of laughter bursts from him, harsh and unamused. His head pounds like crazy, and nausea boils in his gut—he needs to lie down, have his head looked at, and his injuries tended to, but that can wait a bit longer.

“I don’t need your protection!” He pays no attention to the hot slide of blood down his cheek, feeling nothing as it drips off his chin onto the marble floor. Adrenaline keeps him going at this point—that, and fiery ire. 

“Yes, you _ do_!” The words tremble from him, high and almost out of control with emotion, and for the first time since they were led in, Dean notices the paper crumpled in Castiel’s fist. 

The entrance hall falls silent again, everything cutting off except Castiel’s ragged breathing as he holds his fist to his forehead and closes his eyes.

“Your highness,” a small, meek-looking staff-member says, her blue eyes wary in the wake of Castiel’s anger. “Your mother wanted me to give these to you straight away.”

Castiel looks up, not quite so harsh as he was only moments before, and offers the girl a soft smile as he takes the stack of papers with shaky hands.

“Thank you, Marla.” She scurries off as he flips through them, and Dean watches his face for any change. What he sees breaks his heart—with every flip of the page, it’s obvious whatever _ Castiel _sees, breaks his, too.

“You’re all over the news, Dean. Look—” He shoves the papers at Dean with his lip curled in disgust.

Dean takes them, his heart in his throat as blood pulses in his ears. A few red droplets splatter onto the front page, but he doesn’t have it in him to notice because, right there, front and centre for the world to see, is _ him_.

_ Winchester Gone Wild_, the headline reads, and with every word, Dean’s stomach sours more. 

_ Dean Winchester, 24, was spotted late last night and into the early hours of the morning at one of the most infamous clubs in Amarellino, 1-3-4. The Amarellino native is one of eight remaining suitors, vying for the affection of his royal highness, Prince Castiel Novak, and the two-time fan-favourite. Though, that all might change after tonight’s escapades. _

Dean doesn’t bother reading on. His hands shake so badly he can barely read anyway, but the pictures say it all. 

He’s dancing with Charlie, spinning her around and laughing like he hasn’t got a care in the world. Then, drinking with Jesse and Caesar, leaning close and chatting. 

Those are the tame ones—not that bad by his standards—but the next few almost bring everything in his stomach back up.

That woman—the brunette—has her hands all over him, front and centre, on the next paper. It’s some trashy tabloid, but there she is, pressing herself against him as he tries to push her off. Of course, that’s not how it looks in the picture. He scans the words below it, his heart in his throat.

_ Winchester’s New Girl? _

_ Is the hometown hottie cheating on Castiel? Who’s the pretty lady, and what exactly went down at 1-3-4, Amarellino’s hottest club last night? All the dirty details inside. _

Dean’s eyes fly up to Castiel’s, finding the hurt there, and he rushes to explain. “Cas, I didn’t do—”

But Castiel stops him, holding up a hand and shaking his head as his face crumbles for a fraction of a second before he pulls himself together. “I know,” he says, and that’s all he says, before folding his arms over his chest. It’s like a barrier between them, blocking Dean out, and he takes it for what it is, no matter how much it stings.

The last paper has Dean dropping all the others to the floor.

_ Soldier’s Brawl at Amarellino Club_, it reads and, sure as shit, there’s Dean throwing his one and only punch. 

He can’t read the words below it. Blood stains the page, smeared by his shaking fingers. His vision blurs—whether from his head injury, the alcohol leeching from his system, or the shock of having his face splashed all over the place, he doesn’t know, but the pages fall from his hands and flutter to the floor as he pushed his fingers into his hair.

“Cas,” Dean says, his voice trembling from his lips as panic starts to seep in. “Cas, what do I do?” He looks up, meeting Castiel’s eyes as his fingers slip from his hair, coated in blood. “What do I _ do_?”

Castiel’s eyes widen just a little, shocked by Dean’s panic, but he snaps back into action in an instant, turning to his beaten and bloody soldiers. “I’ll speak with you later; go get cleaned up. Benny, have someone clean up this mess and tell Duma to meet me in my office.” 

Benny nods, heading off in the opposite direction without another word. The soldiers don’t move yet, though, and Dean can see Charlie looking around at them from the corner of his eye.

“Dean,” Castiel says, finally meeting his gaze, his voice infinitely softer now. “Come with me.” Then he turns away, his shoes clicking across the marble floors on his way to the grand staircase. Dean follows, ignoring the way the rainbow lights dance over his shoes. 

Now is not the time for that.

“Let me see,” Castiel says, crouching in front of Dean where he sits on the couch in Castiel’s office. He’s so overwhelmed by it all that he almost doesn’t hear him, but after a moment, he drops the wadded up sling from the right side of his face.

“Still think you’re overreacting,” Dean says after a moment. Sure, the tabloids are bad, and Dean’s beyond terrified about what that means for his future here, but it’s not his first fight by a long shot and, if he’s being completely fucking honest, it’s not even the worst thing that’s happened to him while at the palace.

Castiel cuts his eyes at him, narrowed in a harsh, warning glare. He drops his hand from where it was hovering by Dean’s forehead. “There are reasons for the rules in place,” Castiel says, his voice just this side of yelling. “And I meant it, Dean. I make the rules, not you.”

“You think I’m kidding about leaving?” He raises an eyebrow, annoyance seeping back in to snuff out the panic. “I’ll walk out of here and never come back, Cas, I swear to God—”

“Stop.” He holds up his hands, shaking his head, but Dean’s not fucking finished.

“No, _you _stop!” He pushes to his feet, gaining some much-needed distance from those blazing eyes, even though his head spins and vision blurs when he moves too fast. “I’m not here to play your servant, your _highness_,” Dean snaps, spinning around to meet his scowl. “I’m here to _marry _you, and I won’t take orders from you like I’m less—”

“You can’t go out alone, Dean!” Castiel shouts, ignoring Dean’s words as he straightens up too. There’s something off about the tension in Castiel’s shoulders—something Dean doesn’t quite understand. 

“I _ wasn’t _ alone! Your fucking _ army _was there—seven of the best, remember? They were there the whole time—”

“And you _ still _ got hurt!” His voice cracks—breaks, then shatters—and Dean stops dead in his tracks. “I’m trying to keep you safe, but you’re making it so… so _ fucking _hard.” It’s barely a ragged whisper, but Dean hears every word like a slap in the face.

“What’s going on? What aren’t you telling me?” Because he knows there’s something—he can see it in the helplessness in Castiel’s eyes, and the way he can’t quite look at Dean. “_Castiel_,” Dean says, enunciating every syllable, and it’s that easy to make the prince look at him.

“Threats,” Castiel whispers, holding up the crumpled paper he’s been carrying around since Dean walked in only half an hour ago. Dean sucks in a sharp breath, feeling his annoyance freeze over into icy fear. 

“Who?” But he already knows—of course, he does.

“You.” His voice breaks on the single word, and he looks so tired in that moment that all Dean wants to do is wrap him up in a hug and never let him go. 

“Let me see,” Dean says instead, holding out a hand for the note, and after a moment’s hesitation, Castiel passes it over.

The writing is a bit smudged, and some words are harder to decipher than others, but Dean manages to flatten it out enough to read.

_ Winchester goes home, or we make him disappear. _

No signature; just eight words that tear into him with vicious claws. Dean’s heart sits squarely in his throat as real, acid fear curls in his gut, and he hands the note back to Castiel.

“People are angry, Dean,” Castiel tells him in a soft, deadly-serious voice. “About who stays and who goes; about not being picked themselves, or…”

“About me; that I’m not of noble birth, or money,” Dean finishes for him, and the way Castiel’s shoulders sag, all the air whooshing from his lungs, tells Dean that’s exactly it. 

A seed of humiliation sprouts in Dean’s chest, growing like a weed and pushing out all his reasons for being here until he can’t think of a single one. It poisons his view of himself, and this place, and these people. _ Most _ of these people—not Cas.

“Stop. Whatever you’re thinking, _ stop_,” Castiel says for the second time this morning, his tone as commanding as the first time, but now, Dean listens, doing his best to push away his insecurities and focus on the _ only _reason he’s here.

Castiel’s too-blue eyes hold his as he steps closer, reaching up a hand to brush his fingertip over Dean’s cheekbone. It’s a barely-there touch, but Dean feels it in his bones—feels it in the way his nerve endings sing and his blood pounds in his veins. 

He closes his eyes as a soft sigh ghosts across his lips. “_I _want you here,” Castiel whispers, close enough to smell his honey-sunshine scent, layered over by sweat and day-old cologne. “Isn’t that enough?”

“Yes,” Dean breathes, and it’s true; it’s more than enough to keep Dean here because all he wants is Castiel. Forever.

“But I need you to be safe, because if something were to happen to you—” Castiel’s voice chokes off, wavering at the end as his eyes blink a little too fast.

“Tell me what you need from me.” 

“Stay safe,” Castiel says, almost without thinking. Dean watches as Castiel’s eyes trail over his face, cataloguing every angle and curve. “Don’t leave the property without an escort.” Castiel catches Dean’s eyes, holding them for a moment as he rests his palm over Dean’s paint-splattered, blood-smeared cheek. “And don’t ever scare me like that again,” he whispers.

Dean leans into Castiel’s palm, too tired and in too much pain to care about the _ no-touching _rule. Besides, Castiel started it.

“Keep Benny with you at all times; if the people who sent the letter have the ability to bypass security with mail, there is nothing to say they can’t breach the walls of this palace as well…” Dean can practically see Castiel’s mind whirring as he thinks everything through. “I need you to check in a few times a day, as well. With me, preferably, but if you must, it can be with Susie. Actually, it’s probably best if you wear a tracking device, just in case—”

“Cas, no. No, I’m not doing that.” Dean shakes his head, inadvertently knocking Castiel’s hand away. His prince scowls, not annoyed exactly, but there’s something a little bit more than worry in his eyes. He looks almost desperate. “Besides,” Dean says, lifting a hand to brush Castiel’s messy hair back from his forehead. “If you can track me, what’s to say the bad guys can’t do the same?”

Castiel thinks about it for a moment, bringing his hands to rest on Dean’s hips and ignoring the way his breath hitches. Eventually, his shoulders sag and he nods. “I suppose you’re right,” he murmurs, stepping closer to Dean like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it.

Dean’s heart kicks up a notch, pounding against his rib cage as a shiver works its way through him. Even with everything going on right now, Dean can’t deny how much he loves having Castiel so close. 

With barely a second to think about it, Dean takes a chance, lifting his arms up to slide them around Castiel’s neck. It feels as easy as breathing, to hold him like this. They fit together so perfectly, and when Castiel moves closer, closing the space between them until they’re chest to chest, holding each other tight, it feels just about like heaven.

Castiel’s breath shutters out of him against the side of Dean’s throat, soft and warm and right. 

“I’m sorry,” Dean whispers, his words getting lost in Castiel’s neck, but he just holds on tighter. It’s the most they’ve ever touched—their whole bodies are pressed together, head to toe—and Dean’s just waiting for something to tear them apart again. 

“Me too.” Dean closes his eyes, feeling warm and safe and more loved in that moment than he ever has. “I need to clean you up,” Castiel says but, still, he doesn’t pull away, holding on for dear life, his hands clenched in Dean’s shirt with his nose hurried in Dean’s neck. “And you need to stop touching me before one of my guards comes in and puts you in a chokehold.”

“Oh, fuck,” Dean says, jumping away like he’s been burned. “Shit, sorry.” 

“Don’t apologize.” Castiel turns his back to him, leaving him by the paint-stained couch and rounding the dark, cherrywood desk, which sits in front of tall, arched windows that look out over the grounds. 

The room is beautiful, as offices go, with cream walls and rich accents. It’s very _ Castiel_, if Dean says so himself, with the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a little seating area in the corner. 

“Sit,” Castiel tells him, rounding the desk again with a first-aid kit in hand. His leather shoes click on the hardwood floors, matching the tick of the cuckoo clock on the wall by the door. He pauses, a small smile curving one side of his mouth. “_Please_.” 

“Sir, yes, sir,” Dean says, saluting his prince before dropping onto the couch with a soft bounce. Okay, so he might still be a little drunk.

“You are a menace, Dean Winchester.” But he’s grinning, and it’s so sweet and happy that Dean’s heart melts. 

Castiel gets to work, cleaning up the cut on the side of Dean’s head, then the bruise on his jaw. He’s slow and methodical, making sure to be as gentle as possible. 

All the while, Dean watches him, studying the way Castiel’s brows pull together in concentration, and how the tip of his tongue sticks out between his lips or the _ adorable _ way he cocks his head to the side after examining his work.

“There,” Castiel says, tucking in the last bit of gauze around Dean’s bruised knuckles. “No more of this, alright?” He holds up Dean’s hand, giving him a stern look and a raised brow before adding, “Doctor’s orders.”

Dean flushes, squirming in his seat as heat ripples through him. “Yes, sir,” he mumbles, less as a joke this time and more because he doesn’t know how else to respond to a direct order when he’s not blazing mad.

“The good news is you don’t have a concussion, but I would like you to keep me updated. If you feel nauseated, lightheaded, dizzy, or your headache persists—”

“I’ve got a hangover, Cas. I’ve got, you know, all of that.” He waves his hands in front of him to get his point across, and Castiel chuckles softly. 

“Menace,” he whispers, though more to himself than to Dean, and crosses the room to put his kit back in its cupboard. 

Instead of responding, or getting up to leave, Dean lies down on his side, kicking off his mud slattered shoes and snuggling into the soft, squishy cushions with his hands folded beneath his head.

It’s so warm and cozy in here, and Dean hasn’t gotten a wink of sleep—not counting the minor KO he took at the club. He knows he should go back to his room—shower, and change, and sleep in his own bed—but he feels safe here, with Castiel.

“Duma should be here shortly—” Dean hears Castiel say, but he cuts himself off so fast, Dean’s not sure he ever really spoke. There’s the sound of soft steps over the floor, then a weight over Dean’s body—not heavy, but warm and comforting. Dean snuggles into it and breathes a contented sigh.

He’s not quite asleep when there’s a knock on the door, but it doesn’t startle him enough to stir. Quiet voices have a whispered conversation, but all Dean catches is that whoever it is should come back later—that it can wait, and Castiel can get some work done in the meantime. 

Dean’s just drifting off again, in the barely-there sensation between waking and sleep, when warm lips brush his cheekbone. 

It’s so soft, he’s not even sure it happens; it's too intimate to be from Castiel, but Dean succumbs to the hope, anyway, and lets himself drift.

“We need to talk about it, your highness, _ with _Dean. As in, he needs to be conscious.” 

Dean wrinkles his nose at the noise, snuggling deeper into the warmth of the cushions he lies on and pulls his blanket up to his ears. He doesn’t want to wake up just yet; he’s cozy and content just the way he is.

“He hasn’t slept that long, Duma. Keep your voice down, or you’ll wake him.” Castiel’s words are barely more than a whisper, but they bring a soft, easy smile to Dean’s lips. 

“That’s the point—we need to deal with this _ now _before he ends up charged with assault!” 

“He’s not going to be—”

“There’s nothing you can do about it, Castiel. You can’t go around pardoning every little thing he does, just because you—”

“Enough,” Castiel says, authority bleeding into his tone. Dean jerks awake, startled by the force of Castiel’s words and blinks in the dark room. 

It can’t be more than mid-afternoon, judging by the light peeking around the edges of the heavy curtains drawn over the windows, but Dean feels better than he has in days.

“Oh, good.” Duma drops into one of the chairs in the seating area, crossing her legs at the knee as she sets a few folders on the table at her elbow.

“What’s up?” Dean asks, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He’s still a bit groggy, and his voice is more sleep-roughened than he’d like, but now he’s curious about those folders.

“Will you tell him, or shall I?” Duma looks at Castiel with an arched brow, sarcasm hinted in the way she tilts her head to one side and, by the glare Castiel shoots her, he doesn’t miss it.

Instead of dignifying her with a response, though, Castiel turns to Dean, his expression impassive as he leans back against his desk and crosses his arms in front of him. 

Sometime in the last few hours, he must’ve changed because, now, he’s dressed in a deep maroon suit with a thin black tie and a crisp white button-down. His hair is styled and he’s got one of those monogrammed handkerchiefs in his breast pocket.

“You’re being charged with assault for your attack on the man at the club.” He says it with so little emotion, almost like he’s stating the weather, that it doesn’t sink in for a moment.

“What?” Dean shakes his head, his heart kicking up a notch with every second that ticks by on the clock. “Charged? But—”

“I’m sure it’s only an issue because he knows who you are now,” Duma tells him, flipping through her folder before pulling out a piece of paper. “Unfortunately, that means you’ll need to be arrested—booked and bail will be set.”

Dread almost has him losing the lunch he never ate. Adrenaline and fear surge in equal measure, warring to win out—fight or flight? Eat or starve? Live or die?

“Bail? But I don’t—Duma, I can’t afford bail. I’ll… I’ll go to prison, I’ll—” A lump lodges itself in Dean’s throat, cutting off his breathing and choking him with panic. “Cas, I can’t—” He looks to him, silently begging him to make it better, but Castiel’s face just about crumples.

“I can’t save you from this, Dean. There’s nothing I can do.” The pain in Castiel’s eyes tells Dean everything he needs to know. He’s already thought this through from every angle, tried to come up with a solution, and failed miserably at even that.

Dean drops his face into his hands, scrubbing them over his day-old stubble. “What am I supposed to tell my family? Shit.” He’s going to have to tell them _ something_; there’s no way they won’t see the papers, even if they can’t afford to buy their own. Honestly, he’s surprised they haven’t already come busting through the palace gates.

“Dean,” Castiel says, pushing himself away from his desk to sit beside him on the couch. There’s enough of a space between them that no part of them touches, but Dean still feels the heat radiating off of his prince. “We need to know what happened last night. Tell us everything.” There’s more than a little hesitation in Castiel’s voice, and when Dean looks up, meeting his gaze, he sees why. 

There’s pain there, and fear, but more than either of those, Dean can see the preemptive hurt. He knows why—of course, he does—but there’s really no reason for it.

“Okay, but, Cas…” He pauses, waiting for Castiel to look up from his hands before continuing. “Please don’t let whatever’s going on inside that head of yours run away with you.” 

Castiel scowls at him—that famous Novak scowl—and it almost makes Dean smile as he reaches up to push back a wayward strand of hair. 

“That woman recognized me from the show. She was drunk, and kind of, I don’t know, threw herself at me.” Dean shrugs, “The sling kept me from holding her off.”

Castiel takes a deep, steadying breath and nods, relief melting his fear until the scowl morphs into a tentative smile. “Okay,” he whispers, his eyes brightening in a way Dean’s only seen a handful of times.

Something flutters in Dean’s chest, fragile and hopeful. It’s almost shocking to see Castiel so worried about Dean falling for someone else—it’s flattering, of course, but something about Castiel’s insecurity is worrying, too. Does he think Dean doesn’t feel the exact same? That it doesn’t hurt him every time he sees Castiel with someone else?

Whatever the case, now’s not the time.

Over the next half hour, Dean tells them everything, starting from the moment he walked out of the sitting room after dinner, to the minute they pulled up outside of the palace that morning. Castiel does a lot of scowling, but Duma is professional and diligent, not showing any signs of personal feelings.

When he’s finished, he looks to Castiel, but the prince isn’t looking at him. His eyes shift over the floor, deep in thought. He doesn’t look overly worried, which is endlessly comforting, Dean admits. 

After a moment, Castiel speaks. “Did you say he hit you first?”

Dean’s eyebrows crease as he frowns. “Yeah—a couple of times, why?”

But Castiel doesn’t answer him, shooting up from the couch to round his desk and fiddle with his computer for a moment. “Duma, get me the footage from inside the club.”

“I’ll make a few calls.” She steps out of the room for a moment, already pressing a button on her ear-piece.

Castiel picks up a phone, dialling with swift, practiced fingers while holding it to his ear.

Dean watches on with baffled interest, wide eyes following his prince’s every move. What’s going on? What’s he missing? Nervousness flutters in his chest, making his heart skip a beat as he sits on the edge of his seat.

“Yes, to my office. Thank you.” Castiel hangs up a moment later, the call cutting off with a click before he’s back around the desk and sitting at Dean’s side. “Here, let me remove this,” he says, soft and kind, before his fingers slide under the bandana wrapped around Dean’s forehead.

He forgot it was there, honestly, but now that it’s off, cool air chills the strip of heated skin. “Thanks,” he murmurs, taking it from Castiel’s fingers, but apparently he isn’t done, because he’s back on his feet seconds later, searching through his desk for something else.

“We’re meeting with a lawyer; you need to look less like… well,” he waves his hands at Dean, his face twisting up in apology.

“Do I really look that bad?” Dean looks down at himself, covered in all kinds of various crap, and realizes he probably does.

“Well, uh… well, _ no_, but—” Castiel flushes, his cheeks darkening almost enough to match his suit, and he huffs. “But, you’re meeting with a _ lawyer_, Dean,” he says, a little grumpy with a barely-there pout.

“I’m going to need a shower, then, and probably some clean clothes.” Dean quirks an eyebrow as one half of his mouth tilts up in a sarcastic grin. “No one’s going to take me seriously covered in neon paint, my own dried up blood, and smelling like a liquor store just threw up on me.”

Castiel’s shoulders slump, and he huffs again. “Yes, you’re right.” He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, thinking, and Dean forces down the slow curl of heat in his belly—_not _the time, Winchester. “Here,” Castiel says, pulling Dean out of his thoughts. “How fast can you shower?”

Dean scowls, taken aback by the odd question, but answers anyway, thinking of all the sixty-second showers he’d taken as a kid to save water. “Less than a minute, why? You got a—”

“Up, Dean. Get up. Follow me.” Castiel takes him by the arm and practically drags him across the room, stumbling and confused. “Everything you need is in here; I’ll lend you one of my suits.” Dean’s whole body flushes at the thought of wearing Castiel’s clothes, but he pushes it off with a jerky nod. “Hurry,” Castiel whispers, opening a door in the back corner of the office that Dean hadn’t noticed, and nudges him in. “I’ll hang the suit up in the dressing room.”

“What—” But the door is closing behind him, and how Dean’s alone, standing in a small room with rounded walls, mirrors at every angle, and a cushioned table-thing in the centre. The space is decorated with gold accents to complement the cream dressers and white drapes. It’s a beautiful space, but he’s in a rush. 

There’s another door across the room, and he wastes no time pulling it open. Behind it is a bathroom, still a bit damp, with condensation dripping down the glass walls of the shower, and a used towel in the hamper by the door.

Dean’s stomach flips, his hands get all clammy, and his breath catches when he realizes Castiel was in here—showered and was _ naked _ in here—not that long before him. That same burning heat rushes back in with a vengeance, crawling over Dean’s skin and sending sparks of pleasure down his spine.

No. Not the time—he doesn’t _ have _ any time_. _

As quick as he can, Dean undresses, peeling off the bandages Castiel had so carefully applied, before turning on the shower and stepping in. The water pressure is divine—somehow better than in his own room—and it makes him want to spend hours under the spray, just soaking in the heat and comfort of this place.

He doesn’t do more than tip his head under the stream, though, before snatching the shampoo off its shelf. He’s in so much of a rush to be done, that he doesn’t even notice the smell until he’s flipping the water off and stepping out.

Honey-sunshine. _ Everywhere_. 

It permeates the air, sinking into his senses and calming him in the most peculiar way—exciting him and making him feel safe all at the same time. _ Exactly like Castiel does_, Dean realizes with a start, and it’s got him smiling from ear to ear.

He’s so distracted by the realization that he doesn’t even hear the dressing room door open until there’s a knock on the bathroom door. 

“Dean? I have a suit out here for you, but I’ve just realized that, uh… well, that you don’t have any clean underwear. Castiel pauses as Dean turns scarlet—he can see it in the mirror over the vanity. “I left you a new pair, never worn. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Th-thank you,” Dean squeaks, his voice choking off with his breath. He clears his throat and tries again. “Thanks, Cas. I’m just about finished in here.”

“Right!” There’s a shuffling sound on the other side of the door, then Castiel’s voice from further away, “Anael will be here shortly—my lawyer, that is.” 

Dean nods, though Castiel obviously can’t see him, and waits for a count of ten after he hears Castiel leave before he steps into the dressing room.

There’s a suit hanging on the back of the door, looking freshly pressed and clean. Dean hesitates for a moment before dropping his towel, not really wanting a repeat of the other day, but he spots the underwear folded on the cushion and snatches it up, sliding it on before anyone can walk in on him.

Now, the suit. It’s a dark, subtle green—nothing like the flashy crap Susie forces him into—and he smiles as he takes it down. He actually likes this one, and the soft, expensive fabric feels like a dream in his hands.

Dean makes quick work of pulling it on, making sure the buttons line up before he fastens them, and pulls a fresh pair of socks from one of the drawers—he’s pretty sure Castiel won’t mind since he’s lending him some underwear, but he hesitates before slipping into a pair of expensive leather shoes. 

Well, he can’t exactly go out there barefoot, can he?

When he’s dressed, Dean stands in front of the mirror, looking himself over and straightening out the jacket. The pants are a bit loose in the thighs, but he’s not exactly surprised, what with Castiel’s running habits. Other than that, they’re a perfect match, and the thought both excites him and makes him a little sad.

Instead of dwelling on it, Dean scrubs the towel through his hair one more time in a vain attempt to get it as dry as possible, before giving up with a sigh and tossing the towel in the hamper alongside Castiel’s.

“Cas?” Dean says as he steps back into the office. He doesn’t see him anywhere, so he takes a moment to straighten the borrowed cufflinks and thin black tie. 

“Yes, I’ll let him know—” Castiel looks up, his eyes locking on Dean as he steps through the doorway, a cellphone in hand, and freezes. His gaze slides from Dean’s head to his feet, taking in every part of him. He squirms, both loving and hating all the attention.

“Uh, Cas?” Dean ducks his chin, trying to catch Castiel’s attention, and loving the blush that creeps up his neck and into his cheeks. “Is the lawyer…”

“A few more minutes,” Castiel finishes, then steps closer with a keen look in his eyes. “You have some…” He gestures to his own eyes but spins away so fast Dean doesn’t have time to question him. “Here, let me.” 

He comes at Dean with a wet wipe, grasping his chin between finger and thumb before Dean even knows what’s going on. He gasps—just a soft inhale, but it’s enough to catch Castiel’s attention. 

“I’ll be gentle,” he murmurs and moves in closer. He’s only a breath away when Dean’s eyes fall shut and his heart kicks against his rib cage. “Good, keep them closed.”

Dean gulps, fighting like hell to keep his breaths even and calm, but Castiel starts wiping at the leftover eyeliner, and he’s _ so _ gentle. “What, eyeliner’s too much?”

Castiel chuckles, adjusting his grip on Dean’s chin as he tilts his head back a little. “It’s a good look on you, Dean, but not quite what we are going for with this meeting.”

“A good look, huh?” Dean says, licking his lips as Castiel moves to the next eye. “Might have to do it again sometime?” He grins when Castiel huffs but keeps talking anyway, if only to distract himself from the heat prickling his skin where they touch. “You want to come next time? Huh, Novak? You can make sure we behave.”

When he blinks his eyes open, Castiel is rolling his own, but there’s the tiniest little grin on his lips, turning them up despite his best efforts to keep the scowl in place. 

“You are a _ menace_, Dean Winchester. So much so, that I might just.” He arches a dark eyebrow and folds the stained wipe into little squares before setting it on the edge of his desk. 

“Really?” Dean cocks his head to one side and a strand of hair falls into his eyes. “You’ll come out with me?”

“If you were allowed to leave the grounds, then yes, but since you have already made a promise to stay put…” Damn him. Dean scowls, his bottom lip sticking out in what he _ refuses _to admit is a pout. 

There’s a moment where all they do is watch each other, standing far too close for regulation, before Castiel breaks the silence with a click of his tongue.

“Your hair is a mess,” he murmurs, almost to himself, before his fingers dive into Dean’s wet locks, pushing and pulling this way and that until his hair is flat and he can hardly breathe past the lump in his throat.

“Th-thanks, Cas,” Dean whispers, barely a breath away from Castiel’s lips and, oh God, does he want to lean in and kiss him—to take a chance like he never has before—but it’s not the time or the place.

They both jump when there’s a knock on the door, and Dean steps away just as Castiel calls for them to enter.

A stunning redhead in new-age eclectic fashion steps inside, a knowing smirk curving her lips and a mischievous glint in her warm, brown eyes. She’s nothing like Dean expects from a lawyer, especially that of the royal family, but she commands the room in a way that Dean suspects would hold any courtroom in her thrall.

Her floor-length dress is made of some kind of soft, flowing material, its floral pattern of reds and oranges contrasts her long, thrift store beads and tweed jacket, and Dean grins at the sight of it—she looks like his kind of person; someone he might’ve played games in the street with as a child.

“Anael,” Castiel says, stepping forward to shake her hand. “It’s wonderful to see you again, and looking as lovely as ever.”

“Such a charmer,” she says, shooting Castiel a wink, but he just shakes his head with that tiny smile. “What can I do for you, your highness?”

Dean shifts in place, kicking the hardwood floors with the toe of Castiel’s expensive shoes, before cringing when he realizes what he’s done. Castiel turns to him before he can worry about it anymore, though, a smile on his face as he reaches out a hand to wave Dean forward.

“This is Dean Winchester; one of my suitors. Dean, this is Anael.” Castiel’s fingers brush his arm, calming him more than he could’ve hoped for. 

He takes a deep, soothing breath and holds out his hand to shake. “Nice to meet you,” he murmurs, smiling a little, but he can’t help feeling like a bug under a microscope as she looks him over with an arched brow. Her long, red fingernails skim the sensitive skin at his wrists when they shake hands, and a shiver skips down his spine.

“He’s a pretty one, that's for sure.” That’s all she says before turning away and, for some reason, it rubs him the wrong way. His smile drops into a scowl so fast, his cheeks ache, and he narrows his eyes into a glare.

“Just _ pretty_, huh? That’s all you got?” 

“Dean,” Castiel hisses between his teeth, shooting him a look from the corner of his eyes.

Anael doesn’t look angry, though, as she smirks at him over her shoulder before holding up a stack of papers. “Anyone who does _ this _while courting the Crown Prince of our great kingdom can’t be very bright.” Dean flushes from head to foot when he sees that she’s holding the newspapers Castiel showed him that morning.

“Inexperienced, not stupid,” he corrects, standing his ground when all she does is cock her head to the side.

After a moment, though, she nods. “Alright, then—point taken.” Then she looks to Castiel again, who’s feigning a casual stance, one hip resting against his desk, but his eyes flick between the two of them like he’s waiting for a fight. “Feisty, that one. I like him.”

“Wonderful,” Castiel responds, dry and sarcastic, and Dean disguises his chuckle with a cough. “Might we get on with this? There is much to do before the end of the day.”

“Right, his royal highness has much to do,” Anael says, her expression grave, and Castiel gives her a curt nod before turning away. Dean looks between the two of them, a little confused until Anael shoots him a wink. 

Dean grins, more than a little surprised by this tiny firecracker of a woman, but he can’t say he’s disappointed. It’s refreshing to see someone so different from what he’s used to—someone outside upper-class standards making it big. Someone like him.

It gives Dean hope.

It takes hours but, eventually, Duma—and at one point, _ Castiel_—manages to beg, plead, and even intimidate the club into giving up the video footage from the night before.

“Yeah, look there,” Dean says, pointing to the dark, grainy footage of Matt pushing him, then knocking him sideways with a fist to the face. “He hits first, see?”

“Hmm…” Anael hums, leaning closer with a finger on her chin as she squints. “I think we can work with this.” Then she’s nodding, and something like nervous excitement bubbles up in Dean’s stomach. 

This is all so new to him—the legal proceedings and strategy—and he can’t say he’s fond of it, but knowing they’ve got _ something_? He’ll take that win any day of the week.

“Are you planning a counter-charge?” Castiel asks, all business now as he leans back in his high-backed desk chair and looks to Anael. He’s ridiculously intimidating like this, in all his authoritative glory, but instead of feeling threatened, Dean struggles to shove back the electric buzz of attraction zipping through him.

His prince is hot as fuck, and there’s no way he can ignore that.

“Yes, I’m thinking that’s the best course of action.” Anael nods, snapping her computer shut with a click before straightening up. “The goal here is to get him to drop the charges against you,” she says, speaking to Dean now, and he jolts to attention where he sits close to Castiel’s side in a spare chair. “If he does that, we’ll drop ours. The last thing the royal family needs is for this to go to trial right now.” 

Castiel nods, still looking at the grainy footage, and even though he tries to hide it, Dean can see the thin line by his eyes, creased with stress. Guilt swells up inside him; this is his fault—Castiel’s discomfort is all on him.

“I’m sorry, Cas,” he says into the silence, startling them all. Castiel’s eyes snap to his as his hand falls away from his mouth.

“Whatever for?”

“Uh, you know,” Dean says, blushing hot as he waves his hands around. “For all this; for causing you stress.” He swallows hard but refuses to break eye-contact as Castiel observes him.

The silence stretches on for a few beats before Castiel blinks, and looks down. Not much about his expression changes, but Dean can see his throat working, and the lines of his face deepening. But only for a second, then he turns away.

“We can speak about it later.” That’s all he says, and Dean gets the feeling that they won’t be talking about it at all.

“Okay!” Anael says, breaking the tension as she drops a stack of papers on the desk. “I need signatures from both of you—lots of signatures, so I hope you’ve got plenty of ink in those pens.”

Dean takes the pen Castiel hands him with a quiet, “Thank you.” He’s glad to have something to occupy his mind, though he’s getting a bit hungry, so here’s to hoping they can get this done sooner rather than later.

“I suppose you’re rather hungry?” Castiel asks as he packs up his things, smiling over at Dean, who rubs his wrist and shakes out his hand. God, he doesn’t think he’s written that much since high school.

“Starved,” Dean corrects, smiling at him with careful fondness. 

Anael left only a moment ago, cramming stacks of paperwork into her messenger bag and telling them it could take a few days to hear back from Matt’s lawyers. Then she hurried out, leaving them alone in the silence of Castiel’s office.

“Dinner started only a few minutes ago.” Castiel steps around his desk, but scowls when he sees the soggy bandages Dean slapped back on after his shower. “But I need to change these first. Take them off while I grab my kit.” 

Castiel spins away, leaving Dean standing there, hungry and exasperated. He huffs and rolls his eyes at the back of Castiel’s head.

“Don’t roll your eyes at me, Winchester,” Castiel snaps, his hands buried deep in the back of a cabinet, and Dean gives him an indignant squawk. 

“I did _ not_!” But even he can hear the lie in his voice. “What a thing to accuse.”

“Don’t pretend you didn’t do it; I know you better than that.” With the kit in his hands and a smile on his face, Castiel turns to face him, though it drops when he sees Dean’s bandages still in place. “I told you to take those off.”

“I don’t take orders from you,” Dean grumbles, and as soon as the words leave his mouth, he knows they’re wrong. Castiel is the _ prince_—the future king, to be more precise—so he damn well should be taking orders from him.

But Castiel only sighs, shaking his head with a defeated smile. “No, I suppose you don’t.” The words, said without anger, calm Dean’s sprinting heart. He’s safe with Castiel, to do and say what he pleases, and that thought alone has him wanting to do anything the other man asks of him.

He makes quick work of changing Dean’s bandages, wiping the cuts clean before re-covering them, and when he’s finished, he brushes the drying strands of hair back from Dean’s forehead, his fingers brushing ever so softly before he speaks. “Shall we?”

The table is full when they step into the dining hall twenty minutes late, and Dean’s heart sinks when he sees how far away from Castiel he has to sit. It’s not unexpected, really, but still more than a little disappointing, to say the least.

“As soon as I know anything, I will find you, alright?” Castiel whispers in his ear, leaning in close enough for Dean to feel his every breath. 

“Yes, uh… yeah, thank you.” He clears his throat, feeling heat rise in his stomach as the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. 

Castiel chuckles and brushes past him, and to Dean’s humiliation, he realizes Castiel knows exactly what he does to him—shit, is he really that obvious? 

Dean huffs, his ears heating as he scowls at the back of his prince’s head. You know what? Screw him. Dean’s here to marry the bastard; he’s allowed to be attracted to him, damnit.

He drops into the only empty chair at the table, right between Charlie and Michael, and ignores them both as he loads his plate with corn, asparagus, and grilled chicken. 

Dinner conversation floats around him in small stutters and bursts, careful to evade the elephant in the room. He’s sure they’ve all seen—or at least heard about—Dean and Charlie’s wild night with the soldiers, but are too scared to mention it in front of Castiel after his very public and explosive reaction to their disappearance.

And now, knowing all that he does? Dean can’t even blame Castiel for his blow-up. God, he still has that hair-raising prickly feeling on the back of his neck, like someone’s watching him… waiting for him to be alone.

A shiver skitters down his spine.

He pushes his worries off, though they don’t go far, and shovels more food into his mouth. Shit, he’s hungry—he hadn’t even realized just _ how _hungry he was until now, so used to the hollow pit in his stomach.

“Hey, where’d you get the suit?” Charlie asks, a little louder in her surprise, and everyone at the table lifts their eyes to them. “I didn’t see anyone grab it from your room.”

When Dean narrows his eyes at her, she shrugs.

“Was waiting for you to get back.” 

He rolls his eyes and shoves more food into his mouth to buy some time. How the fuck is he supposed to get around this one? There’s no way in hell he’s spilling the beans about borrowing one of Castiel’s. _ Shit_!

“I, uh—”

“I had his stylist deliver a new one,” Castiel says, cool as a summer’s breeze as he sips from his wineglass. 

The relief that washes over Dean snuffs out his blush and he nods—maybe a bit too emphatically, because Charlie arches an eyebrow and April and Kelly look between he and Castiel like they’re missing something. Michael looks pissed, Meg has a keen, penetrating glare aimed at him, and Hannah and Sarah both just look a little sad.

“But why did he need it _ delivered_?” Meg snaps, a little too accusatory if Dean says so himself. She flips her dark locks over her shoulder, eyes sharp as she stares Castiel down from a chair two over from his.

“That,” Castiel says, his tone just on the polite side of biting, “Is a matter that does not concern you, Miss Masters.”

Taking the shut-down for what it is, Meg snaps her teeth closed with an audible click but doesn’t miss the chance to turn her glare on Dean. She looks him over long and slow, examining the suit, and he just about shrinks into his chair.

_ It doesn’t matter_, the tiny voice in his head whispers. Right, it doesn’t matter, and besides, he’s got Castiel backing him, so what can they do? It doesn’t matter. What they think _ doesn’t _matter.

So, why, oh why, does he feel so guilty?

“That’s not your suit,” Charlie says, bursting through his bedroom door only seconds after he closes it. 

Dean rolls his eyes, slipping the buttons of his shirt through their holds as carefully as he can. He knows Benny’s just outside his room—the traitor. “Surprised you held it in that long,” he mutters, peeling off the dark green jacket before hanging it up for the night. 

That alone should give away that it’s not his, especially if she were to take a look around the room at all the discarded clothing hanging off of furniture and piled in the corners. He’s surprised no one’s been in, actually, not that he can’t clean it himself; he just hasn’t been back long enough to get around to it.

“It’s Castiel’s,” she says, once again stating the obvious. Dean doesn’t confirm or deny it but peels off the vest before loosening his tie. “Damnit, Dean! It’s _ Castiel’s_!”

“Tone it down, holy fuck!” Dean hisses, looking to the door, but no one comes bursting through with torches lit and pitchforks sharpened. “Someone’ll hear you.”

“Right, right—sorry.” She winces at her own mistake and flops back on his unmade bed while he finishes undressing. “So, what happened? You were gone all day and no one heard a peep from anyone.”

Dean lets out a heavy, world-weary sigh, and pulls on some sleep pants, so beyond caring about nudity at this point that he doesn’t even bat an eye at giving Charlie an eyeful of his bare ass. 

“I’m being charged with assault,” Dean says, throwing it out there like a comment on the weather, hoping Charlie’s reaction will be just as casual.

“Holy mother fucking, _ what_?” 

There’s a knock on the door, then Benny’s thick accent. “Everything good in there?”

Dean rolls his eyes and shoots Charlie a withering glare. “All good, Benny.” Charlie bites her bottom lip, but she’s far too agitated to apologize, and dives back into a hushed interrogation.

“It’s _ fine_, Char,” he says, cutting her off when she starts to hyperventilate. “We’re countering—the guy hit me first, and it’s on tape, so just… chill. It’ll all work out. It’ll be fine.” He says the words like a prayer—like an assurance to himself that it’ll all be okay. 

What he doesn’t tell her, is that it’s not a sure bet, or that Matt might still go ahead with the charges. He doesn’t tell her he could still go to jail or that there’s nothing Castiel can do. 

He doesn’t tell her about the threats, either—that people want him gone and are willing to see it through themselves if Castiel does nothing.

He doesn’t tell her he’s terrified.

And she doesn’t ask; she hears it in everything he doesn’t say.


	27. WEEK FOUR - Friday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it's been a minute. 
> 
> Here's 27! I don't really have much to say other than life's been hectic and will only get more so. I've dropped out of the DCBB so hopefully, I won't be as stressed and more willing to write.
> 
> Thanks again to sparrowtail for beta reading! You're awesome!
> 
> Let me know what you think!

The sun's not even awake yet, so why is _ Dean_?

“Really, Suse, I feel like this is a bit excessive. What is it? Like, five o'clock?” He stifles a yawn as she holds up two _ slightly _different button-downs to see how they'll look against his skin-tone—her words, not Dean's. 

Susie drops her arms to her sides with a huff, glaring up at him in the golden glow of the overhead lights. “It's six-thirty, boy. Hold still.”

Dean rolls his eyes but does as he's told. “Still too early,” he mutters, shivering a little. A morning person he is not, but after Susie heard about the charges, she insisted that he looks his best—his most _ proper_, were the words she used, but either way, it's got him up at the ass-crack of dawn. 

He doesn't tell her so, but there's nothing a good suit and well-styled hair is going to do to get the people to like him more; they're not that stupid. He just needs to keep his head down and get through the next few days without a panic attack.

“Just put me in the Cas suit,” Dean says, though he doesn't mean to actually say it out loud. He's just so tired.

“I will _ not _ put you in the _ Cas suit_,” Susie snaps, more than a little offended by the looks of her slack-jawed glare. “You wore it yesterday!” She huffs and puffs, tugging on a shirt at random. “I will say, that boy has good taste, but to wear it two days in a row? Nonsense!” She shakes her head, clicking her tongue as she does up his buttons. 

Dean smiles, his mood buoyed by their teasing banter. She's so easy to rile up, especially when it comes to her job, and Dean gets a kick out of it every time. “He really does have great taste, doesn't he?” Dean muses, looking up at the ceiling and the little flowers etched into it. 

“He learned from the best,” Susie tells him, pride evident in her voice. The soft, honey-yellow button-down hugs his chest and shoulders when she finally gets it done up, taking a moment to smooth out the non-existent wrinkles as Dean nods. 

“Right, you were his stylist.” Dean grins just thinking about it. How'd he get so lucky in having Susie, too?

“I _ am _his stylist,” she corrects, arching one perfectly plucked eyebrow while bending to hold his trousers open for him. He steps in, only stumbling a little as she pulls them up. “Who do you think made that suit?” She nods at the door in the direction of the suit Dean hung up the night before.

“So, is that where you're going when you're done with me?” Dean holds his arms out to his side while Susie threads a belt through the loops of his pants. “His royal highness gets to sleep in, so I don't?” Dean wrinkles his nose at the thought.

“Of course not, Castiel is out running.” She doesn't say anything more, but now Dean can't get the image of Castiel, sweaty and panting, out of his head. God, that's got to be a sight to see. 

“Vest,” Susie snaps, bringing Dean's attention back to her in an instant, and he holds out his arms for her to slide the slate grey vest on. It matches the pants he's wearing and, presumably, the jacket, too.

It hasn't even been a full twenty-four hours since Dean got back to the palace, but so much has shifted. He's being charged, and though he hasn't been arrested yet, he's not sure how far off that is. Will the police storm the palace? Tear him out of the dining hall and force him into the back of one of their cars? He has no idea, but the fact that he hasn't heard a peep from the authorities is probably Castiel's doing.

Just thinking of Castiel gives him the warm and fuzzies, melting his fears in seconds and making him feel more secure than he ever has. What will he do without that man, when he's sent home and never gets to see him again? Or worse, he has to see him with someone else?

He shoves the thought away as Susie finishes up, dropping a pair of leather shoes at his feet. He scowls at them, both recognizing them and not. 

“Those aren't my shoes,” he says, looking at the tiny scuff on the toe. 

“Put them on, boy. They match your suit.” Dean does as he's told, sliding into Castiel's dark leather oxfords with a sigh. She folds up the monogrammed handkerchief too, sliding it into his breast pocket before patting his chest. “You're dressed, now in the chair.”

Dean tugs at his lapels and steps down, doing as he's told with only a tiny pout. Today's going to be a long day, he can already feel it.

Dean's first to breakfast, taking up a spot at random since he's too tired to think it over. He yawns his way through his first cup of coffee, smiling at the man who pours it for him.

The sun rises in beats, moving with the tick of the grandfather clock in the corner. Its rays move steadily across the room, shining through the floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the courtyard.

The uncovered glass is as spotless as everything else in this place and, for the first time since arriving here, he thinks about all the work that goes into making sure the palace runs smoothly. There are so many hard-working staff members employed here, and gratitude swells in his chest for them—for their endless hours and countless days. For every extra second they take to make sure he and the others are as comfortable as possible.

When the young man comes to serve him again, Dean stops him, making sure to meet his dark eyes when he says, “Thank you.” 

The young man, no older than eighteen, blinks a few times, startled and more than a little confused, but when Dean smiles, he does, too, and fills Dean's cup.

“Aw, how sweet,” a saccharine voice says behind him, and Dean's mood plummets when he turns to see Meg, Michael, and April step into the dining hall. “Is he your new fling? Or are you still seeing the club tramp?”

Dean grinds his molars and narrows his eyes as he watches her lower herself into the chair beside Castiel's empty one. “Still sticking your nose in other people's business, I see.”

She doesn't take the bait though, her ruby-red lips curling at the corners as she flicks her hair over her shoulder. “As if your business is relevant enough to hold my attention. Actually, I won't be surprised when you find yourself dead-last in the fan-favourite selection after that little stunt you pulled.” She shrugs, satisfied with her dig, but before Dean can snark back, Charlie steps in to save him, tailed by Hannah.

“What's up, bitches?” She grins, not bothering to look over at the others as she drops into the chair beside Dean and steals his coffee. Dean doesn't miss the way Meg turns her nose up at the blatant lack of concern for sharing spit, but he's so far past caring that he looks her in the eye, takes the mug back, and downs it with a smirk.

“Disgusting,” she mutters and turns away, but Dean just cocks his head to the side and sets his mug down.

“What? You got a problem with swapping spit? Gosh, Meg, I never took you for a prude.” The scowl she shoots him is worth batting his eyelashes like a schoolgirl and the sugary-sweet tone he forces.

The scowl turns into a smirk before his eyes, though, and there's a glimmer in hers that sets his teeth on edge. “Not at all, pretty boy. In fact, I'm thinking tonight…”

Dean's stomach sours, her meaning ringing clear as a bell as his heart clenches—images of Meg and Castiel tangled up in each other's arms, lips locked together, surge in, uninvited. He shoves them back, annoyed at letting her get to him in the first place, and rolls his eyes.

“Good luck with that,” Dean says, shovelling scrambled eggs into his mouth as he speaks. “You're more likely to be tackled to the ground than get your lips anywhere near Castiel's.”

Her smile doesn't fall, but her eyes harden in a way that chills Dean to the bone. It's unnerving—the way she looks at him like he's nothing more than a cockroach under her shoe—but he's not about to be intimidated into going home. No fucking way.

“It's fine, really; I'm not going to ride her.” Dean stands back, watching as the stable boy throws a saddle over Cookie's back and straps her in.

“His highness says she needs to get used to it.” That's all the boy says as he hands Dean the reins and offers him a nod before going back to his chores.

“Okay,” Dean breathes, turning his back to the retreating boy. He shakes his head and runs his fingers through Cookie's mane. She snorts, shuffling from foot to foot and bobbing her head towards the door. Dean chuckles, rolling his eyes as he leads her out into the crisp, not-quite-frosty air. “Let's go, you impatient beast.”

The path out of the palace was slippery when Dean stepped outside half an hour ago, but the dirt crunching beneath his stiff leather boots is nice and solid, giving him something to focus on besides the gnawing in his gut as they wait to hear from Matt's lawyers.

No word from Castiel this morning, or anyone else for that matter. He didn't even show up for breakfast and, even though Dean knows it probably has nothing to do with him, he stills worries that something's wrong and Castiel's avoiding him.

“You think Benny knows we're gone?” Dean murmurs, talking to the horse without really expecting any kind of reaction. And he doesn't get one but smiles anyway. “Probably not, right? But it's fine; we're not leaving the grounds, got it?”

Again, Cookie ignores him, and he runs his fingers through her thickening winter coat as the dirt path fades into dry, browning grass. 

Honestly, it's kind of shocking how comfortable he's become here. It's been a month since he arrived and he already feels like he could stay here. Maybe that's stupid—getting used to comforts he knows he’ll have to give up—but he can't help it, especially when Castiel's around. Everything just feels so _ good _with his prince.

The grass grows longer the further he goes, but there are things so much better to notice than that, and something about the chill air just won't let him think about anything outside of his head. 

Not what day it is, or how Castiel's date is going, or how far he's wandered off…

The hairs on the back of his neck prickle, standing on end, and in an instant, Dean's on high alert. He scans the long, flowing grass, his heart pounding in his chest, but there's nothing there. Just the dull grey sky where it meets the duller brown grass.

It's nothing. 

_ It's nothing; you're fine. _

_ You're just overreacting, it's fine, Dean. You're fine. _

Cookie lets out a huff. Then another. Another, and she's dancing, ears flat on her head as she looks around, frantic, almost. 

A shiver crawls up Dean's spine.

“What is it? What's out there?” Dean holds her reins a little tighter as her head bobs, and she whinnies, trying to rear up, but not quite finding the fear to get there just yet.

Something moves in the corner of Dean's eye, and he whips around, but there’s nothing. 

A twig snaps, but it's under his own boot.

A breeze whispers through the waist-high grass, locking his bones into place with their icy fingers, and when he looks back to the palace from where he came, debating whether or not running back is a viable option, all he sees is a speck in the distance.

He's so much further out than he thought.

Dean's heart just about leaps out of his throat when Cookie rears up, pulling the reins from his hands and sending him stumbling back. He falls to the ground, hitting the half-frozen dirt with a shock of pain and thundering terror.

Dried grass and stones cut into Dean's palms, and a sense of urgency floods him like it never has before. He needs to get out of here, and _ fast_.

But he can't leave Cookie, and she's going so wild, there's no way he can get her to run with him. Dean pushes to his feet, but instead of running away like he expects, Cookie drops back to her front feet and angles herself for him to get on.

Fear makes him shaky, but adrenaline gets him up on her back, and he holds on for dear life, clinging to the reins so tight they cut into his palms, heart pounding in his chest, as she takes off.

With the wind whipping his hair and the icy chill tearing at his skin—burning his cheeks a bright red he knows he'll be in trouble for later—he finally lets himself breathe. His hands ache from his vice grip and every time Cookie shifts her stride, he clings to her, his thighs squeezing as hard as he can to stay put.

When Dean feels secure in his seat and far enough from that feeling of eyes all over him, he chances a glance over his shoulder, and in the middle of the tall, swaying grass, against the slate grey sky, stands a dark figure.

Watching him.

“Fuck, shit…” Dean hops on one foot, his other caught in the stirrup in his haste to get off Cookie's back. He's shaking so bad he can hardly function, but somehow he manages to get his foot unhooked without landing on his ass.

With a trembling breath, Dean rests his forehead against Cookie's shoulder, feeling her powerful lungs fill and empty. She doesn't move, letting him stand there in the dim light of the barn as she waits for him to pull himself together. 

He wraps his arms around himself, pulling his wool jacket in tighter, and holds on for dear life. His heart thunders against his rib cage—fear rioting in his stomach. 

There was someone out there with him.

_ Someone was there, someone was there, someone was there_.

It runs through his mind over and over; his only thought. Someone was there, and they were watching him. They were watching him, and they wanted him to know it. That's the only explanation he can come up with for why they stood there for so long, and why they didn't show themselves before Cookie took off.

But _ why_? 

Is this what Castiel was talking about? Are there people coming for him that can get past the palace guards? Or is he overthinking it, and that person_ was _a guard, sent to watch over him?

And now he just feels kind of stupid because _ of course_, it was a guard. He can see the suit in his mind's eye, against the horizon and waist-deep in the tall grass. Someone had followed him—probably Benny—when they realized he'd gone off on his own.

A soft chuckle falls from his lips as a hot rush of embarrassment floods him. He pushes away from Cookie and pats her neck. 

“I'm sure that's all it is, Cookie; just a guard. Yeah.” With that thought soothing his fears, Dean unbuckles her saddle and pulls it off.

But something else is bothering him—something he can't quite put his finger on—and he thinks it over again and again while running the brush over Cookie's speckled coat.

It comes to him like the softest whisper in his ear, because Cookie is trained to know a palace guard, so what had her so spooked? And _ why _didn't the guard make themselves known?

Hannah finds him just before dinner, still hiding away in the barn.

“Dean, I haven't seen you all day.” She smiles at him like she's not sure she's entirely welcome, what with their still-rocky friendship, but Dean grins over Brigit's back with a shrug. “You weren't at lunch.”

He'd like to say he'd just lost track of time, but the truth is so much more embarrassing than that. Lunch had come and gone, his stomach rumbling in distress, but he'd stayed put, too afraid to step out in the open after the events of that morning.

“Really?” he says instead, feigning surprise. “I hadn't noticed.” He tosses aside the brush he'd been using to detangle Brigit's mane and steps out of her stall, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

By the look on her face, he can tell she doesn't believe a word of it, but she doesn't pry, either, pulling her ankle-length wool jacket in closer before she speaks. “Would you like to take a walk with me?” Her voice is soft with hesitation, but in an instant, a smile blooms on her lips—something mischievous in her eyes. “I'm sure you haven't heard, but Meg came back from her date _ early _ and disappeared into her room.”

Dean's attention peaks and he lifts an eyebrow, pausing where he stoops to grab a shiny red apple from the barrel by the door. “Really? No gloating, or play-by-play?”

Hannah just shakes her head, that tiny smile still in place as she folds her gloved hands in front of her. 

Interesting…

He lifts the apple for Brigit to take, stroking between her eyes as she chews, before following Hannah out the door and into the biting chill of late afternoon. 

For a moment, his heart stutters, anxiety rippling through him as the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He can feel eyes on him, but when he looks up, it's only Benny, standing by the double-doors and watching as he and Hannah move into the dying garden. The air rushes from Dean's lungs in a whooshing breath, and he lets himself relax for the first time in hours.

“Do you know what happened?” Dean asks, unable to keep his curiosity in check any longer.

One shoulder jerks in a not-so-delicate shrug. “I've no idea. No one knows and, believe me, they've all tried speaking with her, but she won't see anyone.” She pauses for a moment, something sad filtering into her features before she continues in the softest voice. “Castiel won't see me, either.”

For a moment, Dean's flooded with so much worry he can hardly breathe. What did Meg do to him? Did she hurt him? 

But the more he thinks about it, the more ridiculous it sounds. Castiel has four guards on him at all times, either in sight, or just out of it, but they're always present, so there's no way she'd ever be able to do anything to hurt him.

Could it be something else? Something that happened to _ both _ of them that neither wants to talk about? Something on their date with fans or reporters? Could they have… could they have been caught _ doing _something?

Just the thought turns Dean's stomach and he’s thrust back to that morning at breakfast so violently, he stumbles, just barely catching himself before toppling into a rose bush off the cobblestone path. Meg's words, talking about kissing Castiel—of getting more _ intimate_… Could she have tried it and failed? Or _ not _ failed?

“Dinner should be ready soon,” Hannah whispers as they reach the end of the garden. “Did you want to head back?”

“Sure,” he murmurs, still deep in thought, but he tries to smile and holds out his arm for her to take. She does, and with the brightest smile.

They speculate about what happened until they reach the door, but Dean doesn't share his own suspicions, too afraid he's right.

The hallways are empty, silent, as Dean's led through them, flanked on either side by a guard. Their echoing steps, the only sound, ricocheting off the vaulted ceilings. 

The warm glow of the overhead lights is just bright enough to see by with ease, but none of it calms Dean's racing heart.

Realistically, he knows he has nothing to worry about. Probably. But there's always the smallest chance he'll be sent home. He has to remind himself, every time he feels safe, that Jo had no idea she'd be leaving. Lily probably didn't, either, and he's sure he'll be just as shocked when he doesn't get a rose, too.

But, for now, he focuses on his breathing—on keeping it even and smooth—and that gets him to the doorway of the Rose Room, as he's taken to calling it.

The glass doors that lead into the garden are closed tonight, and a bit frosty by the looks of them, but the room is warm, and vines still twist around the columns and wind through the golden accents around the door frames. It's still beautiful, and just as terrifying.

Dean's the last to arrive, besides Castiel, and wastes no time stepping up on his platform in the back corner. 

The camera crew hardly notices his entrance, and neither does anyone else, but he locks eyes with Meg the second he looks her way. It only lasts a fraction of a second, but he swears there's something sharp, and cold, and accusatory there.

It knocks him off balance, and he scowls at her, but she's already turning back to the front.

“We're rolling in five, four, three…” Mick holds up a hand, counting down the _ two _ and _ one _ with his fingers. Then the red lights come on all around the room.

Duma starts her spiel, but Dean's not paying attention. What's Meg's problem, anyway? And what the hell was that look for? Surely whatever she did today has nothing to do with him, right? _ Right_?

But he snaps back to the present the moment the trumpets sound, announcing Castiel's arrival, and he just looks so handsome in his subtle navy suit and sapphire tie. Dean's heart rate slows to a steady thud, and a warm rush of calm washes over him when Castiel's gaze finds him. 

It doesn't last nearly long enough, but he takes comfort in it all the same.

Hannah, Sarah, Michael, April, Kelly, Charlie; the names and smiles roll through the room in Castiel's rumbling timbre, pushing all thoughts of dark, watching figures from Dean's mind as the night goes on, and he hardly notices that there's only one rose left, until—

“The final rose,” Duma says in her professional tone before stepping into the shadows once more.

“Dean,” Castiel says, without hesitation or pause. Hell, he doesn't even have the rose pinched between his fingers yet; his hand still stretching out toward the stem.

For a moment, he’s frozen in place, so startled by the sound of his own name that he can't move, but Castiel's expectant gaze—growing more concerned the longer Dean takes to come forward—unsticks his feet, and he strides across the marble floors with a smile creeping up his cheeks.

Dean stops in front of his prince, and for a moment, as he looks into those too-blue eyes, it's like they're the only two in the room. Castiel's composure breaks just a little when he grins, and the softest blush seeps into his cheeks. 

Dean's stomach flip-flops, his heart, melting like butter, and he bites his bottom lip, waiting for the words with a cheeky little grin.

“Dean,” Castiel says, quiet and rumbling, for only Dean to hear. It sends tingles down Dean's spine.

“Cas.”

Castiel clears his throat with a private little smile before gathering himself. He holds the rose between the two of them, spinning it round and round in his gloved fingers. "Will you accept this rose?”

It's like every part of him sighs at the sound of Castiel's voice asking him that question. It's a promise, of sorts—a promise of more time with him—and _of course_, he'll accept it. 

“Yes,” Dean says on an exhale, and with a smile that lights up Castiel's eyes. Without breaking eye contact, Dean takes the rose from Castiel, their fingers brushing, sending shivers up Dean's arm. 

When Dean finally forces himself to turn away, his eyes fall to Meg's, and the smile drops from his face with that icy stare. It feels like looking into her, and all that coldness in her heart seems far more terrifying than it did before but, like watching a wall come between them, her features morph into devastated shock as she blinks back tears, her bottom lip just barely quivering.

It's fake as hell, Dean knows, but so goddamn convincing it's scary, and he's reminded once again of her shady past—the one no one can really pin down.

Dean steps back on his platform, only barely aware of the spectacle playing out as Meg makes her exit. 

She knew she was going home. 

The realization hits Dean like a ton of bricks, sucking the air from his lungs. That look she gave him when he arrived… she knew he'd get the rose over her. She _ knew _it. 

But how could she know? How could she—

“A toast!” Duma calls over the bustle of the other suitors. “To the prince, and to you!” Dean takes the offered glass of champagne and searches the room for Castiel.

But his prince is gone.


	28. WEEK FOUR - Saturday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LOVE this chapter. Like, so so so much. I don't even know what else to say but that.
> 
> Thanks AGAIN to sparrowtail for beta-reading this, you're awesome.
> 
> Anyway, let me know what you think!

"Dean." Castiel's voice carries from the other end of the hall as Dean pulls the door closed behind him after his interview. 

His head snaps up, eyes wide and suddenly terrified that there's news from Matt's lawyers—

that it's bad and he's going to jail and he'll never see his family again except through bars and—

"I don't want you to miss your phone call," he says instead of telling him his life is over and he's going to rot in a cell. Castiel offers him a small smile and holds up the phone clutched in his hand. "My guards were preparing to leave your room when you didn't show up, but I thought…" His cheeks darken a bit and he looks at his shoes as Dean's heart skips a beat. "Well, I thought I'd come to find you."

Dean's heart melts, warming him to the core as something like adoration pulses through his veins. "Thank you," he whispers, and it's all he can manage to get out as he takes the phone from Castiel's outstretched hand.

Instead of leaving as Dean expects him to, Castiel just waits there, watching Dean with something almost hesitant in his eyes. "Dean, I think you should ask about the show money." Dean stops, his fingers hovering over the call button as his eyes lift to Castiel's, finding worry and more than a little concern there. 

"What's… what's happening, Cas?" A riot starts up in his stomach, fear warring with anger, fighting against dread as every possibility he can imagine hits him at once.

"Nothing yet, but I want to be sure you are prepared, should this not go our way." He tries to play it off with a shrug, but of course, on Castiel, it's so goddamn awkward and out of place it just looks forced.

"Okay," Dean says anyway, offering Castiel a nod and a tiny smile. "But you'll find me when you know something, right? As soon as you know something?" He knows it's a lot to ask of the Crown Prince—too much, even—but he needs this. He needs to know he can count on him.

There's a pause as something flashes in Castiel's eyes, but it's gone before Dean can name it, and Castiel tilts his head to one side with a perplexed look. "But of course, Dean. No matter the time or the occasion, the moment I know, you will, too."

He's not expecting the rush of relief that floods him, but Dean sags with it, finally finding the courage to press the call button and hold the phone up to his ear.

"I should hurry; I have an appointment with Susie right about now, and you know how she is about tardiness." Castiel offers him one last, sweet smile before hurrying off, his shoes echoing down the hall.

Dean doesn't get the chance to think about why Castiel is meeting with Susie, because right then, his mother picks up and he's sliding into a little alcove for some privacy.

"Hey, baby! How're things?" Dean cringes at the forced casualness in her tone, and he knows she knows. Of course, she does—how could she _ not _know? It was all over the papers—still is, actually—and it's not like his parents live under a rock.

"Uh… hey, Mom." He leans into the wall, sinking into the corner like it'll protect him from his humiliation. 

"Anything new at the palace? Anything we should know about?" God, is she really going to make him say it? Really? She is, isn't she?

"I, uh… I went out to a club." He shrugs, like that'll do anything at all to make this less terrible. "Got in some trouble, but you know that already."

"You bet your ass, I do." All pretenses are gone in an instant, anger seeping into her voice, and Dean feels like he's five years old again, caught out doing something he knows he's not supposed to. "They called in the National Guard, Dean Winchester! The _ National Guard_! And what's this I hear about a fight? You hit someone? Dean, I thought we taught you better."

"Mom, it's not what you think—"

"And this is the first I've heard from you? I've been worried sick over this whole thing, but you couldn't bother to pick up the phone—"

"_ Mom_!" Dean's voice carries down the empty hallway, echoing off the walls in the steadily fading sunlight. "You know it's not that easy. I don't just get to _ pick up the phone _whenever I want; I get one call, and this is it."

There's a pause on the other end, longer than he expects, but when a heavy sigh whooshes over the line, he knows he's got to her. "You're right, I know. I just wish…"

"I know." He wishes they could speak more, too. And see each other whenever he wants. It's the hardest part of being here; not being able to see his family whenever he pleases. "But I actually need to ask you something."

"Go for it," she says, no hint of hesitation and Dean smiles, emotion crawling up his throat as his love for her swells. 

"Okay, well, you know the savings I have from the show? Is that still around?" He searches the floor while he waits, his eyes following a vein of copper marble, but the silence holds for longer than it should.

"Oh, I'm sorry, honey." His heart plummets with her whispered words, taking his hope with it. "Sammy had an accident. There was a faulty lift at the auto shop and a car fell and crushed his leg; we used the money for his medical bills." Dean's heart stops, all his worries about bail money gone from his mind as worry for his brother consumes him. "But he's fine," his mom rushes to say, and Dean relaxes the tiniest bit. "He's home, and doing fine—just needs a bit of rest and some time to heal."

"Good," Dean breathes, the vice grip around his heart loosening as he sags into the wall. "I'm glad the money was there." And he is. He'd give it up any day for his baby brother even if it means he suffers. "Look, Mom, I need to go."

"Right! Right, honey, we'll talk soon. Love you!"

They hang up and the pit in Dean's stomach only grows. That, and his anger. At himself, and the healthcare system, and this stupid, fucked up situation. 

He doesn't move from that little alcove for a long time, wallowing in his misfortune and trying to come to terms with the fact that if Matt doesn't decide to drop the charges, there's nothing he, or anyone else, can do to keep him from being arrested and kept in custody until a court date is set.

The gravity of his situation crashes down on him so fast and hard, he almost crumbles beneath the weight of it. It doesn't quite take him to his knees, but it could if he lets it. It squeezes his lungs and burns the back of his eyes, but that's about as far as those feelings get before he shuts them down.

Not the time or the place.

Instead of breaking like he wants to, he buries the dread under so much bitter, sarcastic bullshit that it's nowhere to be found. He crosses his arms over his chest, forcing back the self-pity with a smirk—the terror with a chuckle. 

He's not sure how long he stands there for, but the golden glow of late evening moves into early night, the darkness of dusk fading into a black sky as the stars blink at him through the endless windows. 

It's late, but Dean doesn't feel like turning in just yet; his freedom feels far too precarious for sleep.

For some reason, Dean's pretty sure he's not supposed to be wandering the palace right now, but he can't actually remember why.

The halls aren't exactly empty, only the rushing feet of the odd staff member hurrying through. They don't even notice him for the most part, too busy doing whatever job needs to get done, but for some reason, tonight feels different. The bodies in beige hold more tension than usual—the lines on their foreheads are deeper, and the creases between their eyebrows, more pronounced. 

He swears there's some reason he should be in his room tonight… 

Dean rounds the corner, stepping into the entrance hall, and is overwhelmed by the noise. He stumbles back as a swell of people flood through the doors, all dressed in some of the fanciest clothes he's ever seen and dripping in jewels. 

There are cameras, too, but nothing like the crew for the show—these look far more professional; like they've been doing it for years. 

All these people… they move up the stairs, completely at ease and in their element, and Dean doesn't even notice the way he leans forward into the light, watching with a perverse kind of awe, trying to soak up even an ounce of their confidence.

He's so distracted by the people, he doesn't even notice when they start looking his way.

"Hey, is that—"

"Dean! Over here!"

"Mr. Winchester, are you attending—"

Dean stumbles back when seven or eight different people with cameras and microphones descend on him, pulling his attention away from the crowd. His heart leaps into his throat as his mouth drops open, but no words fall out.

Oh God, oh shit, what now? 

"I—I, um—"

"Come." Fingers graze his forearm, leading him past the reporters with ease as they back away immediately. "You find yourself in the most unfortunate situations, Mr. Winchester." 

It's the second time the deep, gravelly voice speaks to him, but the first time Dean registers who it is, exactly, and he snaps to attention when Castiel pulls him into the flood of people.

"It would seem so," he murmurs without really knowing what he's saying, but with his heart pounding and more than a little trepidation skipping through his veins, he can do nothing but stick close to Castiel's side and hope to high heaven that he's not heading straight for the lion's den.

"Keep your head down," Castiel says, not tense, exactly, but a bit urgent as he searches the shuffle of bodies for someone. "We'll be alright when we get there."

"Where are we going?" Castiel doesn't answer while they climb the grand staircase, but he keeps close, his gloved fingers brushing Dean's sleeve while he searches the landing above.

For the first time, Dean looks at him, and the sight almost takes his breath away.

Oh God, is Castiel beautiful.

All the time, but especially tonight in his fancy royal garb. Dean's only seen him in it twice—once on the day of the selection, then again at the pledge of allegiance ball. 

Crown on his head and shoes clicking with every sure step—Dean is reminded once more of who Castiel is, and it does something to him, burning hot in his veins and flooding his cheeks with a blush.

"The amphitheatre," Castiel says after a while, and Dean almost doesn't catch what he means, too distracted by the sharpness of his prince's cheekbones and the way his dark eyelashes curl at the ends, but he just barely remembers that he asked him a question.

"Why?" Dean whispers, though the shadow that crosses Castiel's features and the solemn downward curve to his lips tells Dean he doesn't really want to know.

Castiel’s lips part on a soft inhale, but he doesn't look away when he speaks again. "To sentence guilty for their crimes."

Dean's heart sits squarely in his throat as they climb more staircases than he thought were possible in this place. He can feel its frantic beats in his temples, and the shaking of his hands does nothing to ease it, either. Not that he expects it to.

Castiel doesn't so much as look his way while they navigate the crowd, but once or twice when Dean tries to slip away, a hand clamps down on his wrist, keeping him close.

He's not sure whether he should be comforted by it or not but, somehow, knowing Castiel is actively keeping him near has warmth settling in his stomach.

"Almost there," Castiel whispers, close enough to his ear that he can hear him over the laughter and raucous chatter all around them. Then, the crowd is gone and Dean's stumbling to the side and into a dark, winding stairwell just off the main hallway. 

It's quiet but for his racing heart, and this whole thing has him so on edge, he trips over his feet and slams shoulder first into the wall, hissing in pain when rock meets bone. 

Castiel tsks, but pulls Dean along, pushing him up the dark, winding stone staircase ahead of him as he rubs his shoulder. "Why aren't you in your room, Dean?" Castiel snaps, the first hints of irritation bleeding into his tone. "The suitors were rounded up hours ago. How did you get past Benny?"

Dean bristles, shooting a glare over his shoulder, but Castiel nudges him on. "I didn't sneak out; I was never _rounded up_, as you put it." The words taste like bile on his tongue, like he's cattle to be herded, and Castiel must hear it in his tone because he lets out a weary sigh.

"It wasn't my intention to insult you, Dean, but you must know, this is the most unpleasant part of being a member of the royal family. I didn't want any of you to have to witness it."

"Oh." That's all Dean manages to get out, but he can feel his stomach turning the closer he gets to the top of the stairwell. Unlike the one to the rainbow room, this one doesn't have windows, but wall sconces with flickering, fire-like lights. It's not nearly as dusty, either, but the damp, chilly air still tickles Dean's nose and makes him twitch.

"I'm afraid you must see it, though, now that there's footage of the two of us together." There's not a hint of exertion in Castiel's voice, even hauling the ridiculous amount of clothing he's got on, and Dean's more than a little bitter about it as he huffs and puffs, sweat beading on his brow, but he manages to look over his shoulder once more.

"I couldn't just stay here? Leave when the crowd's all inside?" The sliver of hope dies when Castiel shakes his head, offering him an apologetic smile when they reach the top.

"I'm sorry, Dean, but every person on camera is now considered a witness and could be called on for questioning if the events of the trial are deemed unjust. You are required to attend."

"Damn, I was just trying to find the kitchen," Dean whispers, looking away from Castiel, but he jumps when his prince laughs, his eyes snapping back to see full lips twisted in a smile and glittering blue eyes.

"There is a reception afterwards; I will make sure there is pie." Dean opens his mouth to respond, but trumpets sound on the other side of the door behind him, and Castiel's grin falls into a rueful smile. "It's time, Mr. Winchester."

Dean sighs, his shoulders slumping a little as his stomach somersaults. At least he's wearing something nice today—Susie's still on her fancy, gain-public-favour-by-looking-nice thing, so he's dressed in a flat, burgundy suit with a matching tie and vest, and a pristine white shirt. He's got gold cufflinks and one of Castiel's handkerchiefs, and she did something with his makeup to cover up the bruises like they were never there. 

Dean leans back on his heels, tapping his toes together, and… huh, he's wearing Castiel's shoes, too.

A set of double doors—that blend so perfectly into the wall, he hadn’t noticed them—swing open, blinding light spilling in through the amphitheatre on the other side. The din of the crowd has Dean stumbling into the stone behind him, his heart leaping into his throat as all eyes turn to them. 

He can't do this. He can't. Shit, he's going to be sick… 

"I will go first," Castiel tells him, so close to his ear he can almost feel the words against his skin, "and when the proceedings start, you can follow. They should be preoccupied by then. If you wish, of course."

Something about the way Castiel looks at him as he says that last part—like he's hoping that Dean _ doesn't _wish to go in when the eyes of the people have turned away—does funny things to his insides.

He finds himself shaking his head before he's actually thought about what to do next. "No, uh… no, if it's alright, I'll go with you." Heat floods his cheeks and he feels more than a little exposed standing there, just in the shadow of the doorway, but when Castiel smiles, none of it matters anymore because… wow. "What do I do?"

Castiel blinks twice, as if coming back to himself, and straightens his shoulders, his chin tilting up as he transforms from Cas, Dean's prince, to Castiel Novak, Crown Prince of Amarellino. The shift is so subtle, yet more powerful than anything he's ever witnessed, and it sends buzzing heat through Dean's veins.

"You will still follow, but just behind. You may even stand by my shoulder if you'd like." Something soft flashes in Castiel's eyes for just a moment before it's gone again. "Chin up, Winchester; you are welcome here." 

A gloved finger tucks itself under Dean's chin, nudging it up with the lightest pressure, and when he meets Castiel's eyes, there's a reassuring smile on his closed lips that's got Dean's heart calming.

"Ready?" Castiel whispers, turning to face the open doors, but he waits for Dean's answer, craning his neck just enough to catch his shaky nod. "Alright." 

Then he's gone, stepping into the light with purpose; like he's meant to be there. And, somehow, Dean follows, tucked in close to Castiel's side, just behind his shoulder as Castiel's name is announced to the crowd.

"Castiel Novak, first in line for the Amarellino throne, presenting as Prime Witness for tonight's proceedings." Dean doesn't know the man who speaks, but he stands at a podium in the middle of the auditorium's stage, just off centre of where the king and queen sit. 

They're decked out in more fancy-pants crap than Castiel, adorned head to toe in gems and jewels in their high-back chairs, and even though Dean knows this isn't a celebration, one would be hard-pressed to figure that out by the cheering that rises up from the seats of the rounded gallery.

It's sickening, really, and Dean's stomach turns the moment he sees the men and women in chains at the feet of the royals. They're worse off than he's ever been—dirty and sickly in their tattered clothes and matted hair—and Dean has to turn away before guilt eats him alive. 

That could've been him. 

It might _ still _be him.

Dean just catches himself from sitting before Castiel, his knees dipping the tiniest bit before he notices the rest of the room still standing. He straightens up, folding his hands in front of him and praying nobody noticed but, from the corner of his eye, he sees Castiel's head turn. It's only a fraction of a degree, but the twitch at the corners of his lips has Dean flushing bright red, heat crawling up his neck as he clears his throat. Damnit, of course, it'd be his prince to catch the mistake.

He swears Castiel waits a few seconds longer because of it, but when he does finally lower himself into his seat, Dean drops down next to him with an explosive exhale.

"That was mean," he whispers when the announcer addresses the crowd again.

Castiel's eyebrows shoot up, his gaze finding Dean's with the best faux-innocence he’s ever seen. "Whatever do you mean?" The bastard.

Dean glares, eyes narrowed to slits, but he can't help but find Castiel's teasing endearing. "You know what you did."

Castiel's straight face never breaks, but he tilts his head forward the tiniest bit and, in his quietest, deepest rumble, he says, "I do, and what will you do about it?"

Heat pools low in Dean's stomach, and he's so shocked he can't manage more than a high-pitched squeak as his cheeks flush hotter. One side of Castiel's mouth twitches up in a tiny, triumphant smirk before he turns back to the proceedings, leaving Dean a trembling, flustered, over-heated mess.

Castiel sighs, his gloved fingers brushing over Dean's, which sit in his own lap, clenched into tight fists. "You’re right; that was mean."

"Damn straight," he grumbles, but the feeling of Castiel's touch takes the bite from it, and he settles in to watch the horror-show of a trial proceed.

And what a horror-show it is.

"Lee Chambers, you are accused of one count of theft under five-hundred dollars and one count of Offence to the Crown." The announcer says, calling out the words into the microphone for all to hear, and Dean can feel his dinner churning in his gut at the sight of the weeping man, on hands and knees, begging for mercy. "How do you plead?"

"G-guilty," the man sobs, crumpling to the floor, and tears burn the back of Dean's eyes. He clenches his teeth, fighting back the fowl taste of anger and despair because all that man did was steal a loaf of bread to feed his daughter.

"The accused pleads guilty to all charges. How does his majesty wish to proceed?" It feels like every set of eyes in the auditorium turns on the king and queen where they sit on their thrones, dripping in enough money to feed and house Mr. Chambers for the rest of his life. Every set of eyes but Dean's, who can't seem to tear his gaze from the line of accused.

Before the king can speak, though, a sharp, feminine voice cuts through the air. "For the theft, five years in prison. For the Offence to the Crown," she pauses, letting the words linger, their weight settling on every person in the amphitheatre. "Life."

There's a collective gasp as the queen’s words ring out, but nothing can block out the sounds of despair coming from the man just sentenced to rot in prison. Dean's heart breaks for him, and he can't hold back the sound that claws up his throat. 

He hates this. God, he hates this with every bone in his body.

"The first thing I plan to do when I assume the thrown," Castiel says through clenched teeth, low enough for only Dean to hear. "Is abolish the Offence to the Crown conviction."

The anger in Castiel's voice almost matches Dean's, and there's something about his prince's proclamation that settles his fears for those to come. But it doesn't help Lee Chambers now, or his daughter, who will be shipped off to an orphanage somewhere and forgotten about.

God, Dean could _ scream _from all the unfairness in this supposed hall of justice. "What the fuck is an Offence to the Crown charge?" Dean snaps, hardly noticing his vulgar language, but Castiel doesn't even bat an eye.

"A charge placed on an accused for something they've done, or are suspected to have done, but that can't be proved by any legal means. The _ Crown _ finds it offensive and an insult to their power, and thus, the Offense to the Crown charge." Castiel speaks as if he isn't one of them; as if the royals he speaks of aren't his own flesh and blood, and that he, too, doesn't demand the same respect from all those who encounter him.

But that's really not fair because, yes, Castiel is a Novak, but the man does so much for those in need, Dean couldn't even name it all if he tried. 

He settles into his seat, leaning in close to Castiel, and wonders if, in a few day’s time, he'll be down there, on his knees, and begging for mercy as Castiel's parents charge him with an Offence to the Crown.

The night drags on and, one by one, he watches as petty thefts and minor infractions are treated like murder—life in prison, twenty years hard labour, thirty years exile, and so on and on and on.

By the time the prisoners are led out and Castiel stands to leave, Dean's exhausted. He's got so much tension flooding him that he could snap at anyone who so much as brushes by him too close. Every nerve ending is raw, his patience stretched thin, and he's got a headache to end all headaches.

"There is a cocktail hour afterward, but I'm going to make an assumption and say you’re not up for it." Castiel searches Dean's face when they step back through the doors they entered through, and even in the dimly lit stairwell, Dean can see the concern in his prince's eyes.

"It's been a rough day," Dean whispers, voice gravelly from the pounding in his head. He doesn't think he can sleep, but he doesn't really know what else to do. It has to be almost midnight, and he's sure Castiel will disappear at any moment—

"Come with me," he says, a grin on his face that's so mischievous that it can't be Castiel's, but the way Dean's heart skips a beat is the same as always, so he follows Castiel down the winding stairs, exhausted and confused, but too curious to tell him no.

Castiel leads him through rooms and hallways, always looking both ways before stepping into one, almost like a kid playing some kind of game. It's startling to see Castiel so playful, but he follows anyway, keeping close to the swishing mantle while making sure not to step on it.

"Come close," Castiel whispers when they round the corner and step into a hallway at least twice as wide as the ones Dean frequents. It's lit with a golden glow, the walls shining with elegant foliage that climb up to the high, arching ceilings. "The event hall is just ahead." 

Dean glances at Castiel, his exhaustion forgotten in the wake of this new-found adventure. He studies the calculating glint in his prince's eyes, watching as he scans the hallway, thinking faster than Dean can imagine.

"Alright," he says, straightening up and ducking back around the corner. He faces Dean head-on, blue eyes holding his with an intensity that takes Dean's breath away. "I need you to trust me."

"Of course," Dean says like there's nothing to it—like he hasn't been taught his whole life to trust no one. He can see it in the way Castiel hesitates that he wasn't expecting that answer, and Dean flushes a little, but Castiel surges on before he can think about it too much.

"Do you see that cart? The one with iced champagne?"

Dean peeks around the corner, spotting the cart in question, and turns back to Castiel, nodding. "Yeah, the one by the doors?"

“Yes,” Castiel says, the mischief in his eyes almost child-like. He looks near gleeful and it's so baffling to Dean that he almost can't do anything but stare. "We are going to walk very fast. We can’t run or we will attract attention, but if we’re too slow, I’ll be pulled away and the ingenious evasion of my security detail will be for naught."

“Wait, you evaded your—”

“Did you think I was lost?” Castiel raises an eyebrow, looking at Dean like he's the most adorable thing. "I know this palace better than anyone, and I intend to show you that if we could just…” He trails off, then— “Now, Dean. Go now.”

He stumbles forward, just barely catching himself before face-planting on the marble floor, and turns to shoot a scathing glare at Castiel, but his prince just shoos him along.

Dean rolls his eyes but gets back to the task at hand. He strides down the hall, long legs carrying him with purpose, and he can hear Castiel a few paces behind.

His heart pounds faster the closer they get to the cart. He's almost there. Just about—

"Oh, Castiel!" Fuck.

Dean's heart sinks when a woman in a dark, glittering evening gown steps into the hall, a glass of ice wine already in hand and her hair in disarray. She's wobbling all over the place on her too-high heels, and excitement makes Dean's hands shake when he sees is opportunity.

He jumps to the side, as if avoiding someone, and collides with the dark-haired woman. She's got to be twice his age, at least, but he can't help but notice how beautiful she is with her high cheekbones and dark eyes.

"Oh!" she cries as she falls into Dean's arms, wrapping her own around his shoulders and, to her credit, not spilling a drop of wine from her glass.

Dean spins her away from Castiel and turns on the charm. "My apologies, ma'am." He flashes her a sheepish grin and lets his hands linger on her waist for a moment until he sees Castiel grab two bottles by the neck and continue down the hall. "Are you okay?"

"Oh, I'll be just fine, thank you." She bats her eyelashes and runs her blood-red fingernails over his chest, plucking at the buttons in a way that has Dean's stomach turning. He drops his hands and tries to step away. "You're that Winchester boy, aren't you?"

"Uh, yeah, that's me." Dean pulls back a little more, trying to figure out how the hell he's getting out of here now. "I need to be somewhere—"

"What's the rush, honey?" A simpering smile plays on her lips, and she tucks herself in closer. "Got someone waiting for you?"

"I, uh—yeah, actually. Yeah, I do." Dean tries for an apologetic smile, but by the look on her face, it's more of a grimace than anything.

She searches his eyes for a moment, then steps away with a secret little grin. "Well, don't keep him waiting." She winks, wiggles her fingers at him, then she's gone.

Dean stays frozen to the spot, too shocked by, well, all of that, to register that he needs to _ go_. 

He shakes away the daze, snapping back to the present when a couple brushes past him, and heads in the direction Castiel went, but not before snatching up a couple more bottles of champagne. 

You know, just in case.

Dean yelps as he's jerked sideways. He stumbles into the dark, heart-pounding, and ready to fight.

But he drops his hands to his sides when he spins around and comes face to face with a wide, toothy smile.

"Did I frighten you?"

Dean scowls, doing his best to pretend he isn't absolutely delighted by this side of Castiel, and failing miserably judging by the light in his prince's eyes.

"What's gotten into you?" Dean asks, scrunching up his nose a little. He doesn't even bother looking at the space around him yet—he needs answers.

But Castiel's smile drops, his eyes doing the same as they fall to somewhere below Dean’s, and he shrinks into himself a bit. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"No! No, no it's okay, Cas. That's not what I meant." Dean shakes his head, holding up both hands to stop Castiel's thoughts in their tracks. "It's just, uh… It's nice, you know? To see this side of you—to get to know the not-so-serious side of you." He shrugs, one side of his mouth tugging up in an awkward smirk.

The tension melts from Castiel's shoulders, and in an instant, that mischievous grin is back. It looks so goddamn out of place with the royal regalia draped all over him, but so natural at the same time.

"Alright, then," he says, and then starts undressing.

"Wha… whatcha doing?" Dean flushes, and he's so thankful for the dim lighting because holy fuck, he's entirely indecent right now and all Castiel’s done is unhook his mantle and pull off his gloves.

"Getting more comfortable," Castiel says, and hangs the heavy, flowing fabric on a hook by the… door? Wall? What? Where are they?

"By… getting naked?"

Castiel gives him a bland look. "Of course not." But he does strip out of his suit jacket, though the crown stays in place.

Dean lets his eyes wander for a moment, not really able to help the way they travel over Castiel’s broad chest and strong shoulders, down his torso to his thick thighs, hugged perfectly by his trousers. 

Heat pools low in his stomach as his breath catches, but he shoves it away and takes a deep inhale, forcing himself to look anywhere but at Castiel as he rolls up his sleeves to reveal his forearms.

"Where are we?" Dean asks, finally noticing where they stand. It's a hallway of sorts, but nothing like the ones he's used to seeing in the palace. The ceilings are low enough that they almost brush the top of Dean's head, and the narrow passage is just wide enough for he and Castiel to stand side-by-side. Soft, golden light flickers on wall sconces, and though they're not flames, Dean can tell that at one time, they were.

"Abandoned servant passageways. We no longer find them useful, and the staff much prefer to travel through the main hallways, so the only one who uses them now is me." Castiel shrugs like it's the most obvious thing in the world, but Dean can't stop looking at the way the shadows play on his face. 

They dance in the hollow of his cheeks, illuminating his eyes and casting dark lines over his cheekbones as the light shines through his lashes. Dean wants to trace every feature—to memorize them for the rest of his life. He wants to carve them in stone and run his fingertips over soft skin and rough stubble. He wants—

"This way," Castiel says, and then he's gone, plunging the space where he stood into darkness.

Dean follows, his eyes glued to the shift of Castiel's white shirt and Amarellino-sapphire vest over his back, and after a beat too long of silence, Dean stops, setting one of the bottles of champagne between his feet and peeling the foil off the other.

"Castiel," he says, tasting the name on his tongue like it's his favourite flavour. Castiel turns to face him, curiosity in his eyes, but he grins when he sees what Dean's about to do.

"Well? What are you waiting for?" Castiel steps in beside him, a challenge in his eyes, and peels the foil off one of his own bottles. "Ready?" he whispers, and Dean's so distracted by the wild light of happiness in his eyes that he's not, and just about jumps out of his skin when he squeezes the neck of the bottle too hard and pops the cork by accident.

Castiel laughs, though, throwing his head back while Dean scrambles to get his mouth under the foaming liquid.

Castiel pops the cork on his own bottle, not spilling even a drop, and lifts it high in the air. "Cheers!" he shouts, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.

"To what?" Dean laughs, holding up his own bottle as he wipes his mouth on his sleeve. God, Susie's going to kill him for that.

Castiel ponders the question for a moment, and Dean watches a riot of emotions flash in his eyes, but when he finally settles on one, it feels right. "To freedom," he says, clinking his bottle against Dean's.

"To freedom," Dean echos, and they tip their bottles back.

Dean drops his head back down after a few mouthfuls, gasping for breath as he wipes his mouth again, but Castiel's still going, chugging it back like his life depends on it; his crown just barely clinging to his head.

Dean whistles long and low, watching as a rivulet of bubbly liquid escapes down Castiel's chin. It might be the alcohol—who's he kidding? No, it's not—but, damn, does he want to lick it off. "Where'd you learn to drink like that, young _ prince_?"

Castiel drops the bottle from his lips, letting it swing at his side as he eyes Dean with interest. He doesn't answer for a moment, his eyelids heavy and his lashes casting shadows. There's something about the way he's looking at Dean that's almost… unhinged, but so goddamn hot it's got Dean shifting where he stands.

"What's the matter, pretty boy?" he rumbles, using a nickname only a few others ever have. "Can't keep up?"

Dean laughs, deciding he likes this side of Castiel very, _ very _ much. So he tips his bottle back again, letting the sweet, icy drink fill his mouth and slide down his throat, not caring that the world starts spinning. 

"Happy?" Dean gasps when the bottle is half empty and his fingers are coated in cool condensation and sticking champagne.

"Always." Castiel picks up the bottle he set on the floor, eyes shining as a lopsided grin turns his expression boyish. "But you're still not keeping up." Then he takes off, racing down the hall and giggling like a child.

"Hey!" Dean calls after him, scrambling to pick up the bottle between his feet before chasing after him, his own laughter echoing in the dark.

"Your shoes are terrible for running," Dean says when Castiel finally stops, huffing and puffing to catch his breath as he braces his hands on his knees. 

"My shoes?" Castiel looks down at his own feet. "I thought I did quite well."

"Not _ you_, dummy." He straightens up and sticks out one of his feet, showing off the tiny scuff to Castiel, who grins. 

"Those are mine!" he shouts, pointing to Dean's foot. So the alcohol is setting in, then, because holy shit, Castiel is adorable with his glassy eyes and crooked smile. 

"They are." Dean takes a swig of his champagne to soothe his burning throat and finds that he needs to lean against the wall to keep from topping over. "Susie made me wear them."

Castiel doesn't say anything for a moment, just looking at Dean with those too-blue eyes, and even in the dimly lit passageway, they glow. Light bounces off the sapphires in his polished crown, reflecting on the walls around them, and if Dean wasn’t so caught up in his gaze, he’d marvel at the light show all around him. 

Castiel takes a step closer, his shoes clicking on the tile, and lifts a hand to Dean's face. His fingers brush the fading bruise, so soft and careful, but Dean feels it in his bones. "The makeup is almost gone," Castiel murmurs, stepping closer still, and Dean's breath catches.

"So is the bruise," Dean says, clearing his throat when Castiel's fingertips brush the yellowing mark. 

Castiel seems to come back to himself after a moment too long and looks to his shoes as he turns away. "I'm glad." There's a moment where they walk on in silence, and Dean sips at his bottle, trying not to overthink everything that's happening here. "So," Castiel says, looking back at Dean over his shoulder with a wicked grin. "How was it? Flirting with my aunt, I mean."

Dean huffs, scowls, and glares at the back of his head, beyond confused, before Castiel pivots to walk backwards, watching him with a smirk. "I didn't flirt with your aunt—wait," Dean cuts himself off, eyes widening as horror sinks his stomach. His voice chokes off into a strangled whisper. "That was your aunt? Your… the _ king's _sister? Oh, God." He's going to be sick, he swears it.

Dean has to stop walking, place a hand on the wall to support himself, and take several deep breaths to calm down. 

And Castiel just _ laughs_, the bastard. With his head thrown back and a flush to his cheeks—his crown sitting crooked atop his head—he giggles like a child, eyes bright and flashing his teeth like it's the first time he's ever felt joy. 

"The one and only," Castiel breathes when he finally gets himself under control. "My aunt Amara was never one for subtlety, and she certainly loves her drink, but she _ is _ seventh in line for the throne…" Castiel shrugs, his shoulders bobbing with a loose kind of fluidity that's so _ not _his prince. 

The teasing, the drinking, the _ laughing_… This side of Castiel might just be Dean's favourite because his prince is relaxed—happy, even—and that's all Dean wants for him.

"Seventh in line, you say?" Dean hums like he's considering her merits. "That's not so bad, actually. Is she single?" He bites his bottom lip, feeling butterflies flutter in his stomach with the risky joke, but Castiel just shoots him a wink.

"She would eat you alive."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean's grin drops to a scowl, but Castiel just lifts his bottle to his lips, never taking his eyes from Dean's, a simmering suggestion in their blue depths, as he drains it. 

Dean flushes, stuttering and stammering as heat pools low in his stomach. "It means," Castiel rumbles, taking a step closer so they're practically chest to chest. So close he's sure Castiel can feel his heart trying to break through his rib cage. 

Dean's breath catches, and he couldn't tear his gaze from Castiel's even if he wanted to. They're a breath apart, so close he can smell the alcohol wafting off of him, but he trembles with anticipation as Castiel leans closer. "What?" he chokes out, and there's no missing the way Castiel's eyes drop to his lips. "What does it mean?" His back hits the walls, his knees shaking—threatening to give out—but he needs to hear what Castiel has to say.

"You're too innocent for her; too sweet and kind…” He trails off with a smile, his eyes cataloguing every inch of Dean's face. Dean sways closer, drawn to his words and the almost-touch, but he waits. "She is dark, and you…” He shrugs, something almost sad bleeding into his eyes. "You feel like sunshine."

All his protests die before they form, and his traitorous mind tries to convince him it’s not true; Castiel doesn’t mean it. That he’s just being polite, and he’s too drunk, and he doesn’t really feel that way. 

Dean opens his mouth to respond—to say _ something_—but there’s a muttered curse, a bang, and a distinct accent on the other side of the wall that draws his attention. 

When he looks back at Castiel, he finds the prince grinning wide and wicked. “Benny,” Castiel whispers, and starts digging in his pocket for something. “He’s rather terrible at keeping track of you; would you like to have some fun?”

“Hell yeah!” Dean whisper-yells, pressing his ear to the wall where he can still hear Benny muttering. 

“Here,” Castiel murmurs and Dean turns back to him. “Hold this for me, would you?” He lifts his crown off his head and places it on Dean’s. The weight of it is unexpected, and Dean blinks back his shock as Castiel adjusts it just so. “There,” he whispers, a pleased little grin turning up his lips. “Perfect.”

Castiel nods for Dean to listen to Benny again, and he does as he’s told, pressing his ear to the wall. Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel clears his throat and fits an earpiece in his ear. 

“Mr. Laffite,” he says, pressing on the device.

“Fuck,” Dean hears Benny say, then, much clearer. “Yes, your highness?” Dean stifles a chuckle with his fist, watching Castiel with his ear still pressed to the wall.

“What is your update on Dean? Has there been any suspicious activity of late?” Castiel blinks, looking from the middle ground to Dean, and holds eye-contact as he fights off a smile.

“Mother fucking Christ, shit,” Dean hears, and it’s almost too quiet to hear, so he presses his ear closer, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. “Uh, yes, sir—I mean, no, sir. Nothing suspicious. He’s been in his room since dinner wrapped up.”

Castiel frowns, and Dean can’t tell if it’s because Castiel thinks Benny’s lying, or if he just really doesn’t know Dean’s out and about. “Oh? I saw him wandering the halls only hours ago.”

“No, sir. He should be in his room.” Lying, then. Castiel rolls his eyes on a grin but doesn’t call him on it. 

“I will be checking in on him in an hour. Make sure he’s there.”

“Yes, your highness.” There’s a beat of silence as Castiel pulls the ear-piece out and tucks it back in his pocket, then— “For fuck’s sake, Winchester, where the hell are you? Going to get me in trouble you fucking asshole…” Dean can hear him stomping down the hall and, as soon as his footsteps fade, the laughter he’d been holding back bursts free, rolling out of him as he doubles over, hands on his knees, his stomach aching with it. The crown on his head shifts, sliding forward a fraction, and he catches it with his hand as he straightens up.

“Oh my God, he’s going to _ kill _me when he finds me!” Dean falls into the wall beside Castiel, whose shoulders jerk with silent laughter. 

“He will do no such thing,” Castiel says, turning into Dean’s side to snatch the unopened bottle from his hand. “Then he’d really be in shit.”

The cork flies on the last word and Castiel takes a long draw on the bottle before handing it back to Dean.

“Come,” Castiel says, and they walk on. The passages are dark and a bit dusty, but not neglected by any means. The steps are sturdy when Castiel leads him around up an old wooden staircase, up three floors and along another passageway, lit by the same golden light.

“How old were you when you found these?” Dean asks after a while. They’ve stopped now, passing the champagne back and forth as they slide to sit on the floor, shoulder to shoulder.

“Hmm,” Castiel hums, swallowing his mouthful before passing the half-empty, lukewarm bottle back to Dean, who tries not to think too much into the fact that Castiel doesn’t seem to have any problems swapping spit with him. “My nanny—who I’ve told you about—snuck me through them on my birthdays. This is how we got to the kitchens.”

“What were your birthdays like?” Dean asks, beyond curious now that Castiel’s opening up. “I know you always did the parade and the greetings, but what else?”

“What do you mean?” Castiel looks at him with careful interest, a crease between his brows as his glassy eyes search Dean’s face.

“Did you have a party? Cake? Presents?” Dean cocks an eyebrow as if Castiel might catch on if he names all the parts of a birthday. “I never got many presents, but there were always people over and at least a slice of pie for me.”

Castiel laughs, but it’s bitter—filled with more sadness than should be allowed—and he takes the bottle back from Dean. “I never got a cake. Or a party.” He shrugs, but the admission turns Dean’s stomach sour. “I received lots of gifts, but I was never allowed to open them, let alone keep any for myself.”

“That’s… awful,” Dean murmurs, more to himself than to Castiel, but he still hears, of course, and the harsh bark of laughter that follows tells him that’s not even the half of it.

“Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever had a birthday I enjoyed.” He tips the bottle back, draining a quarter of it before Dean can stop him. “The parades are exhausting, and greeting thousands of people, without ever shaking a single hand…” He shakes his head, his glassy eyes look more watery than anything now. 

Dean’s heart aches, and he opens the last bottle, knowing they’ll need it. He never really took the time to think too much into what it means to be the Crown Prince; how Castiel has had all these expectations thrust upon him from birth without so much as an opinion. It’s easy to forget he’s human, but here, sitting in this abandoned service hallway, drunker than they should be, it’s impossible to miss the pain infused in every word Castiel utters.

“They would greet my siblings—kiss my sisters’ hands, and shake my brothers’, but never mine. I know why, of course, but it just… Give me that.” He snatches the bottle from Dean’s fingers, the other one rolling, empty, on the tile floor. He hands the bottle back to Dean, who takes it with a lump in his throat. 

A few sips and Castiel takes it back, downing nearly half. In his rumpled shirt, crooked vest, and dishevelled appearance, one would be hard-pressed to recognize Castiel as the Crown Prince. He’s got his legs kicked out in front of him, the glow of the yellow light casting shadows on his face, and he’s slumped so far down the wall, Dean’s sure his back is screaming at him.

“So, no, I’ve never had a birthday party,” he says at last and finishes their alcohol.

“That’s a bit overkill, isn’t it? You were just a kid.” Dean tries to catch Castiel’s eyes, but he’s too busy picking at his nails to notice, his brows still furrowed, but a sardonic smile on his lips.

“I was never just a kid, Dean.”

Dean shakes his head, confused. Surely his parents let him grow up first, before shoving all these responsibilities down his throat? “Come on, you never got to—” But Castiel cuts him off.

"Before you, I hadn't been touched by another person in _ fourteen years_," Castiel whispers, enunciating the last two words with all the pain contained in them, and Dean snaps his mouth shut. "It was… it _ is _hell. I hate it." He shakes his head, sliding further down the wall as he stares at the ceiling. 

"And before that? Who touched you then?" Dean can't help but ask. He's so confused by the whole no-touching rule, and to know that _ someone _got to… well, he's curious, okay?

"Just some kid who wanted to shake my hand." Castiel laughs, and it's not funny, but Dean smiles anyway because there's joy in the sound and he needs that. "He just," Castiel says, then thrusts his arm out in front of him, eyes turning glassy as the empty bottle topples over, rolling across the worn tile. "Stuck out his hand and said, 'Pleasure to meet you.' That's it. And we shook, and he was torn away from me."

"D'you know what happened to him?" Dean whispers, watching closely for the spike of pain that keeps flashing in Castiel's eyes. Yep, there it is again.

Castiel's head rolls to the side, his bleary eyes meeting Dean's, and a lopsided grin softens his features. He tries to shrug, but only pushes himself closer to the floor. "I've an idea, yeah."

Dean scowls, trying to piece it all together through the fog of alcohol muffling his thoughts. "But you never tried to find him?"

Another shrug, but when Castiel meets his eyes this time, they're far sadder than he expects. "He doesn't remember it."

"How do you know?" Surely the kid would remember, right? How could anyone _ not _remember meeting the Crown Prince? 

"I just do," Castiel says, and leaves it at that. He pushes his hands up beneath him, arms shaking, but he manages to sit up, shoulder to shoulder with Dean. "Besides, no one wants a prince for a best friend. It's exhausting," he says, though it's muffled around a yawn. "Just ask Hannah."

"But that's not why you didn't find him," Dean says, ignoring that comment, and he knows he's right, but the thought of someone else holding Castiel's heart hurts. He doesn't _ want _ to be right, and he has to keep reminding himself that _ he's _here, not the other guy. Not the one who shook his prince's hand.

"No," Castiel confirms, "that's not why."

"Then why?" Dean hears himself asking, and he closes his eyes the moment the words leave his lips. 

Castiel takes a deep, shuddering breath before speaking, and in that time, Dean opens his eyes, determined to face this head-on—to be there for Castiel, should he need him. 

"He made me feel human." Castiel lifts a shoulder. "Like a person—a friend he just hadn't met yet—not some god put up on a pedestal." Castiel laughs, but it's thick with resentment, and his eyes shine with tears. "And I hadn't felt that way before, or since, for that matter. I didn't want to meet him and discover that I was wrong about the way he made me feel."

"If it's any consolation," Dean says, trying to lighten the mood as his own heart thuds with envious hurt. "I don't think you're a god."

Castiel laughs, but it's more of a sob than anything, and he's drunk—too drunk, Dean knows—but the way Castiel looks at him, when he _ does _look at him, is like Dean just hung the moon, and the stars, and lit the sun so it shines just for him. Castiel looks at him like Dean's everything he's ever wanted and so much more.

And Dean wants to kiss him _so_ _bad_.

But he doesn't kiss him. He _ can't _kiss him. Not when they're both drunk and vulnerable and there's no one around to stop him.

"I won't do that to my child, Dean," Castiel whispers when his shuddering breaths even out again, so cracked and vulnerable it makes Dean's heart ache. Castiel shakes his head, whipping it back and forth like the very idea of subjecting a child to the same thing he was forced into is the worst thing he could possibly do. "I don't care about tradition, or ancestry, or what's deemed _ proper_; my child will feel loved."

Dean barely chokes back the sound of sadness that bubbles up in his throat. He can feel the ache in his heart growing with the thought of young Castiel, his bright blue eyes filled with tears because no one would wrap their arms around him. 

Without thinking, Dean lets his hand drift across the space between them and wraps his fingers around Castiel's where they rest on his lap. His hands are warm, but Castiel shivers, and after a moment, he squeezes Dean's hand so tight, his joints ache.

But Dean won't pull away, and Castiel doesn't let go.

After a while, Castiel takes a deep, rattling breath. "Come, let's get you back to your room before Benny has a breakdown," he says and pushes himself up with more grace than Dean expects—though he still stumbles into the wall—and without even a moment's hesitation, he reaches for Dean to pull him up, too.

A thrill runs through him—up his fingers and along his arm—and as they turn to head back the way they came, Castiel doesn't let go.

So they walk side-by-side, hand-in-hand.

Castiel takes him back to the hidden door they first came through, not bothering to grab his things, but waiting for Dean to collect himself before they step into the hallway, knuckles brushing where their hands swing at their sides.

"This was fun," Dean says, still feeling drunk on alcohol and laughter. He sways into Castiel, bumping their shoulders and sending his prince stumbling.

Castiel laughs, shaking his head as he wraps an arm around Dean's waist to keep himself steady. "It was," he whispers, his voice soft and rumbly, and there's a tiny smile on his lips as he stares at his feet. "Thank you, Dean."

"Anytime." He pulls Castiel closer with an arm around his back, feeling the ripple of muscle and bone as they move. 

The smell of honey-sunshine and sweet champagne surrounds them and his heart thuds almost painfully in his chest. Warmth and happiness envelop him, and as much as he misses home, he thinks he could find it here, too, wrapped up in his prince.

"Winchester!" Dean jumps, though he doesn't untangle himself from Castiel, and whips his head around to find Benny storming down the hall. "Where the hell have you been? The prince has been hassling me all night, and—"

"Hassling you, have I?" Castiel speaks up, eyebrow raised and a flat look about him. He's so obviously drunk that it's hard to take him seriously, and Dean chokes back a laugh, but it comes out as a snort.

"Your highness, I—I’m sorry, I didn't recognize you—" Benny stammers, shifting on his feet, but Castiel just waves him off with a smile. 

"Inform my guard that I'm perfectly well before they tear the palace apart, and have them meet me in the entrance hall in..." He looks at his watch, then their surroundings. "Twenty minutes."

"Yes, sir. Right away, sir." Then he's gone, head ducked and shoulders hunched as he hurries away.

"Perhaps we were a little cruel," Castiel muses, watching after Benny as he rounds a corner. "I'll have to apologize to him in the morning."

"Hmm," Dean hums, and leads him on. He's getting tired, and the hallways are starting to spin, so the faster they get to a place he recognizes, the better. "Probably a good idea." He's cut off by a yawn and, without thinking, lets his head drop to Castiel's shoulder. "D'you think he'll be mad?"

Dean's head bobs when Castiel shrugs, but he doesn't move it, snuggling closer instead. "He might be."

They reach the end of the hallway, faced with the windows that look out into the grounds, and turn the corner, stopping outside Dean's door.

“I really did have fun tonight,” Dean says, sagging against the doorframe with Castiel standing closer than he probably should. “Apart from the sentencing.”

“I’m sorry you had to witness that,” Castiel murmurs, swaying closer to Dean. The corridor is silent but for their soft breaths and Dean could count the ticking on a distant clock somewhere in the palace. He knows it’s late, and they really should call it a night, but he doesn’t _ want _to. “I’m sure I’ll hear about it from my parents tomorrow, but I’m glad you were there.”

Dean lets the silence that follows hang between them. It’s a comfortable quiet, one filled with ease and familiarity—the kind that doesn’t need to be filled.

“I should be going. My guard is sure to come looking for me.” Castiel leans closer, and for a fraction of a second, Dean thinks he’s going to kiss him, but he doesn’t, smiling instead and twining their fingers together. 

“Is this the part where you nod and smile?” Dean asks, a smirk already on his face, but Castiel just shakes his head and lifts Dean’s hand to his lips.

Dean’s stomach flips, his heart tripping over itself as his breath catches. Heat floods his cheeks and tingles race up his arm from the spot where Castiel kisses the back of his hand. 

He holds the gentle kiss for a single, lingering second before letting Dean’s fingers fall from his and straightening up. Dean would swear that, even in the dark, he’s got a blush to rival all others.

"Goodnight, Dean,” Castiel whispers, “Until tomorrow."

Dean grins, feeling light-hearted and high on the night. “It _ is _ tomorrow." He cocks his head to the side, his hair falling onto his forehead as the hallway dips and spins.

“Well, then,” Castiel says, and smiles in the dark, his eyes squinting as he steps away. “Until the sun rises again.”

He turns away, and Dean watches him go, the shape of his shoulders fading around the corner. 

Under his breath, and for no one but himself to hear, Dean whispers with a smile touching his lips, “Until the sun rises again.”

It’s not until Dean’s inside with his back pressed to the door and a grin on his lips that he realizes Castiel never took back his crown.


	29. WEEK FOUR - Sunday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one, at first, wasn't my favourite chapter, but after a re-read, I kind of love it? Soft boys. They're just the softest boys.
> 
> Do mind the new tags, though, specifically the Past Child Abuse tag. There is mention of it at the beginning, but as the story goes on, it will be delved into a little further, so just be aware of that.
> 
> Thank you again to sparrowtail for beta-reading/cheerleading this story for me!
> 
> Anyway, I hope y'all like it. Let me know what you think!

_ He's no more than ten years old, he knows. It's dark, but not in a way that suggests there isn't light in the room. _

_ No, he's blindfolded. _

_ Pain. He screams. It hurts—God, it hurts. _

_ “Momma!” he yells, his voice so childlike and terrified. He doesn't know why, but they're hurting him, and he calls for her again, but his momma doesn't come. _

_ It's like fire in his veins, ripping through him as he jerks against the hands holding him. They hold fast, not shifting even a fraction, and the blazing, white-hot agony rips through him again, unbearable in its intensity. _

_ “You will forget, boy.” _

_ Forget what? He doesn't know… There's nothing to remember. Is there? _

Is_ there— _

_ “_It's a pleasure to meet you—_"_

“Dean! Dean, wake up!” 

Dean jerks awake, startled by the banging on his door. He groans, squeezing his eyes shut against the early morning light as his pounding head screams at him to close the blinds—to turn off the lights and bury his head in the pillow. 

“Go away,” he grunts, rolling onto his stomach in a feeble attempt to ease the churning in his gut. God, how much did he drink last night? Was it really two bottles? It can’t have been the strong stuff or he’s sure he’d still be drunk as a skunk with his hangover still hours away.

“Mr. Winchester,” the voice rumbles, and it’s not the shrill tone Susie always has with his impoliteness. It catches his attention and he scowls into his pillow before flipping onto his back. The doorknob rattles, then opens, and Dean throws an arm over his eyes.

“Go _ away_!” 

“Dean, I have—”

“God, Cas,” Dean says, peeking through one eye as he rubs the other and finding his prince in silk pyjamas and a thick, cozy-looking robe. “When you said, ‘until the sun rises again,’ I didn’t think you meant that literally.” If he had, he would’ve told the bastard not to bother. 

“Dean, you need to—”

“And what's with the slippers, huh? Why do you have bees on your slippers? Better yet, why are you in my—”

“_ Dean_!” Castiel huffs, his annoyance bleeding through the excitement Dean hadn't fully caught on to. He sticks his bottom lip out in a pout but keeps his mouth shut as he pushes himself up. “Matt's lawyers just called; they're dropping all charges.”

“What?” Dean's hand freezes over his eye where he was rubbing the sleep from it, and he looks over at Castiel with the other, finding him grinning from ear to ear and practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. Dean's heart stops, his breath catching, holding, until he's sure this isn't a joke. “Are you serious?”

“Yes!” Castiel practically shouts, almost vibrating with happiness. A laugh bubbles up his prince's throat and falls out in the most joyous sound, lighting Dean up like a firework show. 

“They… they dropped them? All of them?” For some reason, Dean can't wrap his mind around the possibility that something is actually going _ his way_. It's such a foreign concept that he doesn't know how to handle it, so he just stares at Castiel, who's waiting less than patiently for Dean's reaction.

“The video footage is pretty undeniable.” Castiel shuffles his feet, his little bumblebee slippers squishing on Dean's floor, as his smile starts to falter.

But Dean feels like he just gifted him the rest of his life—like Castiel is handing him the freedom to _ live_, and there's no way he can repay him for that. It's like a balloon inflating in his chest, filled with hot air, melting the icy fear into warm relief. He could collapse with it, his muscles turning to jelly as he sinks into his bed on a sigh.

But that's not what he does.

Instead, he climbs from his bed, his bare feet hitting the chilly hardwood floor as emotion swells inside him. He doesn't say anything as he steps closer to Castiel, trying, and failing, to hold back the emotion squeezing his windpipe. 

“What—”

Dean has his arms wrapped around Castiel's waist in an instant, holding him close as grateful tears threaten to fall. 

And Castiel holds him back just as tight, wrapping him up in the best hug Dean's ever had. 

“Thank you,” he croaks, burying his face in Castiel's neck and feeling a few stray hairs tickle his nose. “For helping me; I can't thank you enough.”

With the heat of the early morning sun against his back and the chill in the air, Castiel's arms feel like the most comfortable place in the world. He doesn't ever want to let go, and for a moment, he doesn't. He just keeps holding on like it's his god-given privilege to do so.

But he pulls back, tearing himself away when the silent seconds stretch on, and he swears Castiel's hands linger on his bare skin. 

Blue eyes shine in the golden glow of the new morning, and Dean feels light and bubbly, the grin on his face stretching wide as the weight lifts from his shoulders. 

He's _ free_.

He's not thinking about the person in the field or the fact that Sammy broke his leg, or that there are still six other people trying to marry his prince—all he can focus on is the relief, and he sags with it, dropping onto the edge of his bed with a soft bounce.

All the while, Castiel just watches, his smile matching Dean's.

“Anything for you,” Castiel whispers, shifting on the spot, and for the second time that morning, Dean notices the bumblebee slippers.

“Seriously, though, Cas. What's with the slippers?” He thrusts a hand out at the fuzzy, bobbing antennas as Castiel's cheeks darken with a blush.

“Oh, my little sister, Hael, bought them for me. She knows how I love bees.” His shoulders jerk in the most adorable shrug, and he crosses his arms over his chest as a strand of dark hair falls into his eyes. “I should be going; there's much to do before the viewing, as you can see,” he says, gesturing to his silk pyjamas and robe, and Dean chuckles with a nod. “I just wanted to be the first to tell you, as I promised I would.”

“I'll see you in a bit, then,” Dean says, his cheeks aching with a smile. “Hopefully, in some real clothes.” He looks down at the sleep pants he threw on last night before falling face-first into his pillow.

Castiel chuckles as he backs away and the sound melts like warm honey in Dean's veins. Then he's gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click, and Dean misses him already.

His hope for real clothes goes unanswered once again.

“Seriously, Suse? I've got, like, a thousand suits. I really need more?” Dean glares at the garment bags draped over her arms, his heart sinking a little at the thought of standing mostly naked in that damn screening room again.

“Yes, boy. You need more suits, now come on.” She tosses him a robe before turning her back to him and marching down the hall.

Dean grumbles something about stubborn women under his breath as he pulls his bedroom door closed behind him. She's already halfway down the hall, her back ramrod straight as she soldiers on, not bothering to check to make sure he's following. Of course he's fucking following, what else is he supposed to do?

He's already got moisture strips under his eyes and some kind of egg mask soaking under a shower cap on his head—he knows he's far from a pretty sight, but he can't really bring himself to care.

“You know,” Dean calls as he hurries to catch up, his slippers slapping his heels as he jogs. “You'd think you would be nicer to me; I could've gone to prison, you know?”

“And yet, here you are,” Susie snarks, shooting him a look from the corner of her eye. 

“And my brother broke his leg, did you know that?” Dean lifts an eyebrow, watching for her reaction, and he's not disappointed when her scowl drops into a concerned frown.

“He's alright, though, I'd assume.”

“He is, but no thanks to the bullshit insurance the mechanic shop offers.” Dean shakes his head, still more than a little pissed off at the failure that is the healthcare system.

“Hmm,” Susie hums in agreement as she nods, but she doesn't say anything more on the topic as they turn the corner and find that the hallway of windows is more crowded than normal.

There's something else he wants to tell her, but he's not sure he should. It might be fine, but should he really go spreading around that he and Castiel got drunk together? That they joked and played and laughed like little kids? God, he wants to tell _ someone_, but he shouldn't. 

No, he needs to keep that little tidbit to himself.

The commotion gets louder the closer they get to the cluster of people at the end of the hall.

“What's going on?” Dean asks, peering into the group to find them looking down at a clipboard.

“I don't know,” Susie mutters, and instead of charging by as she'd normally do, she slows to a stop. “What is it?” she snaps, brushing servants aside and shouldering her way through to the centre of the circle. “What's going on?”

“It's the Crown, Ms. Susie. The Crown is missing,” the young girl, no more than sixteen, says in a shaking voice. Her eyes are wide and scared, round as Sammy's puppy-dog look, and twice as convincing. “His highness never returned it.”

Dean's heart leaps into his throat as nerves flood him. The crown Castiel put on his head; that's what they're talking about. Fuck, if he's found to have that crown… 

“Let me see,” Susie says, shoving the garment bags at Dean as she reaches for the clipboard, and he almost collapses under the weight of them with a startled _ oof_.

She scans the clipboard, her expression growing more and more pinched by the second before she thrusts the clipboard back at the girl and turns to Dean.

“Suse, I need to tell you something,” Dean says, then looks to the rest of the girls, who lean in to hear.

“Well? Spit it out, boy.” She drops her hands to her hips, impatience in every sharp angle of her body. 

“Uh, in private. It'd be better to tell just you…” Again, he looks to the others, shuffling from foot to foot as his arms start to ache.

Susie huffs, but turns to the girls and shoos them off. “Go on, then. You heard—go on!” When they're out of earshot she turns on him once more, and now, with that piercing glare on him, he almost doesn't want to tell her. “What?”

“I, uh…” He shifts, trying not to let the bags slide; Susie snatches them back before they can fall to the floor. With a deep, steadying breath, he decides the best way to say it is to just… say it. “I have the crown,” he blurts, squeezing his eyes shut and holding his breath as he waits for her to lose it on him. 

He peeks an eye open, cringing slightly, but she just sags in relief. “Oh, thank goodness,” she breathes, more to herself than to him, and he starts to relax for a half a second before she's glaring again. “And _ why _do you have it?”

Embarrassment creeps up Dean's neck, followed by a hot flush that works its way into his cheeks. “Well, I—” He rubs the back of his neck but stops when the egg mask soaks his palm. “I was with him. You know, last night. And he put it on me, and—”

“Alright, alright!” Susie practically yells, holding up her hands to silence him. “I don't need the dirty details, boy!”

“What?” He's confused for half a second before her meaning sinks in, and humiliation hits him so hard and fast, he feels sick with it. “No! No, not like that! God, no, Suse, we didn't, I didn't—just… not like that.”

“Good God, boy, get a grip.” She rolls her eyes as Dean fumbles for something to say. Shit, it's not his fault she thought he and Castiel were messing around! _ She _needs to get a grip. “So, the crown,” she says, getting back on track as they continue down the hall. “Where is it?”

“In my room,” Dean says, more than happy to leave his embarrassment behind. “On the dresser.”

“Hmm,” she hums, nodding. They reach the screening room but stop at the door before stepping inside. “You should let your prince know; I'm sure the little gossips have already gotten to him, but just to be safe.” She steps into the room, leaving him behind to try to catch his breath. 

Shit, that could've been bad, and it's only just hitting him _ how _bad. So, he steps into the room and makes a beeline for Castiel, who's already watching him from his chair with a tiny little smile.

“I have your crown,” Dean blurts when he's close enough to be heard, and Castiel's grin drops into a perplexed frown.

“What?”

“Your crown,” Dean pants, out of breath again as his heart races and hands shake. “I still have it. You never took it back, so… yeah, it's in my room.”

“Alright,” Castiel says, drawing out the word as he watches Dean fidget. “I'll come by later to collect it. Dean, why are you shaking?”

Dean wrings his hands in front of him, trying to get control of his breathing as he looks at the floor, then back to Castiel. “I, uh… I thought I'd get in trouble for it,” he mutters, then lifts his shoulder in an awkward, half-shrug. “You know, like someone would think I stole it.”

Castiel blinks, then shakes his head. “I remember giving it to you, Dean. It's fine.”

God, he needs to calm the fuck down. In all honesty, Dean knows he's overreacting, but with the amount of shit he's gotten into in the last four weeks alone, he's not about to take something like a missing crown lightly. 

“Okay,” he breathes, finally letting his shoulder drop as he lowers himself to the cushion beside Castiel's chair. “Just making sure you know, is all.”

They don't speak for a bit as people filter in and Susie washes the crap from his hair, making him lean all the way back with his head in a basin, and close his eyes. It feels nice having gentle fingers and warm water massage his scalp, and he almost forgets all about his anxieties for the time being.

After a while, he can feel eyes on him, and he's not quite sure from where, but he knows they're there. He tries to peek around, but only manages to get an eyeful of water for his trouble.

“All done, boy,” Susie says as she lays a towel over his head and supports his neck as he sits up. She wraps his hair up in the towel, squishing it around to dry it, but a few drops trickle over his forehead and down the bridge of his nose. “When your hair dries a bit, we'll tailor the suits.” She pats him on the shoulders as she stands, leaving him flustered and regretting his decision to sit beside Castiel.

“Hmm,” Castiel hums, and Dean cringes as he peeks up at him. “So much for your hope of real clothes.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Dean laughs, swaying towards Castiel to bump his shoulder on the arm of the chair. “I've decided it's her mission in life to embarrass me, which apparently means undressing me in a room full of people.” He shrugs, more unbothered than he ever thought he'd be.

“A lovely woman,” Castiel says, with not a hint of sarcasm in his tone, and Dean can't help but flush at all the things he could mean by that. “How are you feeling?” Castiel asks, turning to look at Dean with dancing blue eyes and a smile that plays on his lips.

“I smell like egg,” Dean deadpans, pulling a startled laugh from his prince that warms his insides. “I have a hangover from hell, I've got nothing but my briefs on under this robe, my brother broke his leg and I can't see him, and I'm about to watch the weekly highlight reel of my fuckups.” He raises an eyebrow with a wry smile. “How do you think I'm doing?”

“So, not great, then?”

“Could be better,” Dean laughs, shrugging one shoulder as he crosses his legs in front of him and leans back on his hands. His robe loosens off a bit, sliding down his arm, but he hardly notices. Even his headache is easing the longer he sits here. “And you? You got some magic hangover cure or something?”

“You could say that.” Castiel's grin morphs into a tiny smirk as Dean rolls his eyes, a disgusted grunt falling from his lips as Castiel laughs. “The staff here are wonderful to me, though I have no idea why.”

“Shut up, asshole,” Dean says, but he's grinning so wide his cheeks ache, and there's a pleasant buzz under his skin and, God, he could get used to this. 

“They gave me some extra if you'd like it?” Castiel says in an almost whisper, his voice softening as he leans closer to where Dean's head almost brushes the armrest. 

“Oh?” Dean's head pops up, the towel coming loose when he swings around, and from across the room, he hears Susie yell at him to keep still. 

“Here,” Castiel murmurs, one hand digging in his pocket as he shifts his hips forward. He pulls out a tiny vial of deep amber liquid, and Dean gives it a cautious look as he takes it between his fingers.

“What is it?” he asks, bringing it close to his face to inspect the tiny floaters. Not that he has a snowflake's chance in hell of actually recognizing any of the herbs and spices he's sure fill the vial.

“Ginger, I'm certain, and honey. There's a dash of mint, and some orange juice for the vitamins, but Dean—”

Dean's already got the stopper out and is tossing it back before Castiel's warning reaches his ears. He can taste the mint, and even the orange and ginger, but the honey is blocked out completely by the overwhelming burn of aged whiskey.

He swallows it, but just barely, coughing and hacking as his eyes water and his throat screams at him. “God, holy fucking shit, Cas! Warn a guy before you give him a shot so early in the day.”

But Castiel's not listening. He's got his head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, and a hand clutching his stomach as he laughs and laughs. Tears well in his eyes and Dean can't even stay mad as he wipes up the spit on his chin because Castiel is _ so _beautiful when he laughs, and even more so when Dean's the cause.

“I'm sorry,” he sputters between chuckles as he wipes his eyes. “I tried… to tell you—” He breaks into another fit of giggles when he sees the look on Dean's face, and the towel hat and eye masks don't help either, he's sure.

“Enough, Mr. Winchester,” Susie says as she walks up behind him, and though he can't see it, he knows she's smiling; he can hear it in her voice. “Your hair should be dry enough for the suits.”

Dean's stomach flips as the towel falls from his head to pool at his back. He takes a deep breath and pushes himself to his feet, untying the knot at his waist and letting the robe slide off his shoulders until he's in nothing but his briefs.

Castiel's laughter cuts out on a strangled cough.

With his heart beating ten to the dozen, Dean chances a peek over at Castiel, finding wide blue eyes trying—and failing—to look anywhere else but at Dean's bared skin.

Dean feels his eyes on him like a physical touch, tracing his curves—filled out by the month or so of good food—and lingering just this side of too long. He knows Castiel is watching, but he can't look over; his knees might just buckle with the heat he feels in those blue eyes.

The rest of the suitors fill the room, cramming into the corners as their stylists curl their hair and paint their nails. Dean's not sure if they've noticed his state of undress yet or not.

“Mr. Winchester, we need you to put on some clothes; you are rather indecent in the presence of the prince.” Dean's eyes snap to the guard standing by his shoulder, and the room is silent now, watching the scene unfold. The man looks like all the rest of them, dressed in a dark suit with an ear-piece in. His tone of voice is professional—polite, even—but a fierce blush rises in Dean's cheeks at the accusation.

Before he can apologize, though—and just as Susie is opening her mouth to tell the man off—Castiel speaks, his voice a little breathy, but full of authority. “He’s fine, Russell.”

Dean looks from Castiel to the guard, and then to the room of watching suitors and camera crew. An uncomfortable burst of laughter bubbles up in his chest, fighting its hardest to wriggle free, but Dean swallows it back. 

What comes out of his mouth instead is so much worse.

“Well, he's seen me naked, so…” He shrugs, a half-smirk on his face, but as soon as his words register, his whole body _ burns _with humiliation. Oh, God, did he really just say that? Oh fuck, oh shit… 

“He _ what_?” April's shrill voice pierces Dean's ears, and he cringes, eyes squeezing shut as he waits for the fallout, his shoulders curling inward as the silence stretches on.

But then, like a break in the clouds, Castiel lets out the most unrefined snort Dean's ever heard. He cracks an eye open, seeing his prince with a hand over his mouth, completely red in the face, as his shoulders shake with silent laughter. 

“This is true,” he says around another chuckle, and the mirth in his eyes sends a wave of relief through Dean. He laughs, too, sinking his fingers into his hair as the other hand rests on his bare hip.

He knows Castiel knows he's embarrassed beyond comparison, so it's a comfort that his prince never breaks eye contact as they giggle together like children while the others stew in their anger behind him. 

He can practically feel the daggered glare April is shooting him, and Michael's pinched-face pout is turning the air sour. But he doesn't care. God, he doesn't think he cares about _ anything _but Castiel—not right now, anyway. Not in this moment with those too-blue eyes on him and that smile of his own making.

Yeah, he's embarrassed, but it doesn't matter, because Castiel is, too.

“Come on, boy; we have more suits than time.” Susie's sharp voice breaks through the silence, setting the room back in motion as she pulls the first one from a garment bag and helps him into it.

Despite the mumbling that grows and swells around him, bitter and annoyed, Dean is content. There's a subtle twist of a smile on his lips as Mick's voice urges the camera crew into a frazzled mess of fumbling hands. They get the viewing up, though, and the introduction sweeps across the screen in vivid colour.

Even four weeks in, Dean's astonished by the picture quality, and it has him blinking away the ache in his eyes as he adjusts to the picture.

“Four gone, seven remain as we finish off another week at the palace,” Duma's voice booms over the speakers, filling the room as everyone inside falls quiet. 

Dean glances over at the other suitors, noting the glazed looks of disinterest in some, and the barely-veiled boredom in others. Charlie watches with her chin resting on her fist as her stylist rolls her hair up in curlers, and Hannah sits with her knees tucked up to her chest as her toenails are painted.

Dean can't help but catch Kelly's eyes when his gaze sweeps over her, and there's something almost pouty about the look on her face, but she forces a smile the moment she finds him looking, and turns away. 

Monday starts off as wet and rainy as he remembers it. He knows he's not around much that day, but some kind of drama catches his attention on the screen that he hadn't seen before. Apparently, Meg was busy getting her hair dyed and someone slipped the wrong colour in, giving her the ugliest blonde dye job Dean's ever seen. 

He tries not to let his smirk show as she screams at the cameras to get out, slamming the door in their face before an awkward silence stretches on with her shouting the only thing to fill it.

He's almost sorry he missed that.

“I'm grateful to not have been there,” Castiel murmurs as Susie hems Dean's pant-leg.

“No?” he asks, raising an eyebrow when Castiel glances at him. 

“I was with you.” Castiel gives him a sheepish smile, one shoulder bobbing in a shrug as Dean thinks back to when he saw Castiel on Monday—

Right. 

A yellow umbrella comes to mind and standing in the rain as Castiel soaks himself to the bone to apologize to him. It's not exactly a fond memory, but since then, they've come to an understanding of sorts, and Dean's more than grateful for that.

“I remember,” Dean murmurs, his cheeks heating the tiniest bit, and he turns back to the screen as dinner on Monday reveals the muttered conversations of the others.

Sarah, it seems, isn't overly well-liked by the other women, being far too _ fake _ and _ preppy _as they put it. Dean scowls, glancing over at the pretty brunette. He's never found her to be anything but kind. Maybe a little too bubbly sometimes, but a sweet girl, nonetheless.

“Foot up, boy.” Susie tugs on the pant-leg he's standing on, and Dean lifts his leg to free the cuff, but he moves too fast, stumbling to the side. 

Castiel grabs his flailing hand, giving him something to brace himself on to regain his balance, and he holds up a hand to ward off the guards before they can tear Dean away from him. 

“Thank you,” Dean mouths, just loud enough to make a sound, and releases Castiel's fingers with a soft smile, but not before a shiver of pleasure ripples through him. 

From across the room, Charlie gags, and when Dean's head snaps up to look at her, he finds her staring at him with a finger in her mouth like she's making herself puke.

He throws up the middle finger, rolling his eyes, and she grins with a wink.

“Dean!” Susie snaps, patting his leg. “Pay attention.” Dean huffs, but does as he's told as, on screen, Monday rolls into Tuesday, and Dean's limping through a torrential downpour, gripping his shoulder, covered from head to toe in mud and blood.

“Jesus,” he whispers, only now seeing just how bad he looked. He can hear Benny both behind him and on-screen; right now, he's muttering about what a fucking idiot Dean is, while on-screen, he's yelling.

“What the hell, Winchester?” TV Benny shouts, and Dean's pout is almost comical now that his shoulder is mostly healed and his knee only creaks a bit.

He hears his TV self say “I'm going to my room,” before pushing past Benny, and it's so childish looking back on it, that Dean tosses his head back and laughs at the dramatics of it all. 

God, he was such a baby.

Beside him, Castiel huffs, and when Dean looks down, Castiel's cheeks are tinged a nice shade of pink.

“What's the matter, Cas?” Dean teases, feeling all light and bubbly when his prince cuts his eyes towards him before glaring back at the screen. 

“You know,” Castiel mutters, sinking into his chair, and although they don't have any footage of it—switching instead to lunch where Michael is lecturing the staff on the importance of properly folded linens—Dean knows this is about the exact time Castiel walked in on him in the bathroom.

“Yeah, I do!” Dean grins, smiling around Susie as she pulls the pinned button-down off his shoulders before placing it back in the garment bag with the utmost care.

“You are insufferable,” Castiel says, though it's with a smile, and it warms Dean's heart.

It's when they get to Wednesday that Dean's heart breaks. Over and over and over, every time they show Castiel's face—his big blue eyes, wide and open and fragile. 

It's right after the Fan-Favourite's revelation when he shoos off the reporters. Dean remembers being overwhelmed and exhausted and so upset by what April was saying—that she'd stolen Castiel's first kiss—that he snapped at Castiel, who was just trying to help.

It's all there on the screen for him to see, and it doesn't help that the footage of April's date went almost exactly as she said it did. No kiss, but plenty of opportunity for one with all the times the camera hung back, watching from afar as they turned corners and smiled down at each other.

But now, for the whole room to see, TV Dean flees from the room, leaving Castiel more than a little distraught, his mouth hanging open as he watches the door where Dean left. He blinks a few times, looking at his empty hands before he curls them into fists and tucks them in his lap as his mouth snaps shut.

It's only a moment, but watching it has Dean's heart clenching and his eyes stinging with regret, even if his stomach does still turn with the thought of his prince kissing April.

“Do you think the red is too much?” Susie murmurs under her breath, snapping Dean out of his thoughts.

“What?” he asks, tearing his eyes from the screen where Castiel is once again surrounded by people.

“Oh, never mind,” Susie huffs, flapping a hand at him as she pulls the suit jacket back off. “Strip, boy. I'm tossing this suit.”

Dean does as he's told, dropping his drawers and stepping out of them without a single thought to the others. 

Now, in just his briefs, Dean shivers and goosebumps rise on his skin as the chill air clings to him. 

“You!” Susie shouts, and he's so busy trying to ignore the cold that he jumps, but when he looks up at her it's not him she's yelling at, but _ Castiel_. She pulls the pins from between her teeth and swats Castiel's head with a piece of paper. “Watch the screen! Keep your eyes to yourself.”

Castiel pouts, looking like a kicked puppy with a blush to rival even the worst of Dean's, and mumbles a sulky, “Yes, ma'am,” under his breath before facing forward once more.

Dean scowls for a moment, confused; what was he looking at—

Oh.

Castiel was looking at _ him_. In his underwear. He was admiring Dean in his underwear. 

The thought brings the strangest warmth to his heart and he can't fight back the smile that tugs on his lips. Something like pride has his chest puffing up and he thinks this must be what it's like to feel good about himself.

He leans in to whisper in Susie's ear. “Did you just hit the Crown Prince for checking me out?” 

Susie stops what she's doing, shrewd brown eyes meeting his before she gives him a curt nod and goes back to sorting through her papers. “I did.”

“And his guards just… let you?” They must really be afraid of her to let her get away with that. Not that he blames them, Susie is fucking terrifying.

“He's my boy as much as he's his momma's,” she murmurs, setting her papers aside before rummaging through the garment bags again. “They know that.”

Huh.

For some reason, it melts Dean's heart to know that Castiel has someone to love him like a mother, especially after all he learned the night before. He has people, blood related or not, who would go to war for him, and not just because it's their job.

Dean's pulled from his thoughts by the commotion on screen, and his heart sinks because he already knows what's happening. The camera crew is running behind someone—a guard, looks like—and the footage is jumpy and blurred. Pounding footsteps and heavy breaths fill the speakers, drowning out some of the shouting coming from ahead.

Dean's heart pounds behind his ribcage, his lungs emptied of air as the cameraman rounds the corner, finding Castiel wide-eyed and startled, still in the suit he wore that day, as Benny tries to catch his breath.

“Your highness,” Benny pants, swallowing hard as he forces the words out. “He's gone. Dean's not in his room—Charlie, either.”

Castiel's face falls as real, heart-wrenching fear transforms him. It lasts for barely a second before he pulls himself together, but it's there, and it breaks Dean's heart. Especially since he now knows why it's there, what with the piece of paper Castiel has clenched in his fist.

He can see it—the moment Castiel looks down at the page. He sees how something breaks inside him—something soft and fragile, like a bird, before he closes his eyes, forces himself to straighten up, and becomes the Crown Prince once more.

“Search the palace and the grounds. If you don't find him, search the village.” His voice is even and strong, brooking no argument as he stares down his guards. “If they aren't found within the hour, report back to me.”

It's a whirlwind from there—a frantic search of the whole fucking kingdom, it feels like—and when Castiel calls for the National Guard, the whole room goes silent. 

He can feel the weight of Castiel's fear now, after seeing this footage; he knows how serious it was, and once again, he feels like an idiot. God, how many times can a guy screw up in one week?

Dean doesn't even bother watching through Thursday, knowing that, after the morning fiasco when they arrived back at the palace, there's nothing much of him in there anyway.

He lets Susie do her work, following her instructions to _ shift here_, and _ stand straighter_, or _ put this on_. All the while, Castiel sits in silence beside him. 

It's not until Friday's date with Meg that Dean's head pops up and he starts paying attention. 

“What d'you say, Clarence?” Meg is saying as they walk along the river after their quiet lunch in the park. Castiel has his jacket off, slung over his shoulder and held by a single finger while the other hand stays stuffed in his pocket.

“To what?” Castiel murmurs, the bright, late afternoon sun highlighting his hair and turning it a soft brunette. He smiles at her, indulgent in the way he looks at her, and she must take that as an invitation to step closer.

“You know,” she whispers, batting her lashes at him with a coy smile. “I could just show you.”

Castiel frowns on screen, so obviously and adorably confused. Dean finds it ridiculously endearing, and he glances over at Castiel to see his face.

He's scowling, though, his eyes hard on the screen, and Dean's heart leaps into his throat as his gaze whips back to the viewing, just catching the split second when Meg jerks forward, grabbing Castiel by the shirt-collar and trying to haul his lips to hers.

Dean chokes on his own saliva, coughing and wheezing as Castiel's guards pull her off. 

No way. No _ way_! Is that why she was sent home? Dean's stomach turns at the thought of her forcing herself on his prince, and now Castiel has to watch it all over again? To relive it with everyone else? Even if the footage does cut off after that, they still get to see it, and his sweet, shy, kinder-than-he-needs-to-be prince has to suffer under the scrutiny of their judgement for _ entertainment_.

Dean doesn't reach for Castiel's hand—he doesn't take it in his own and give it a squeeze—but he does rest his fingertips on the armrest in the dim light of the room, offering it to Castiel if he wants it, but he doesn't watch for him to take it, either.

So, when he feels fingers, warm and strong and sure, wrap around his own and hold on with a desperation that breaks his heart, he knows it was right to offer, because even if he won't admit it—at least not while sober—Dean knows all Castiel wants is someone's hand to hold.

Not much happens on Saturday in terms of footage for the show, and Dean is beyond grateful that no one got ahold of the trial cameras, or even knew he was there by the looks of it, so that passes as smoothly as he remembers it, though with an obvious absence on his and Castiel's part.

The screening ends with a reminder that this coming week's Fan-Favourite will company Castiel and himself to an interview about the experience, though it only serves as a reminder to Dean that he'll actually have to go at all.

He can only hope this week's chosen one is better at public speaking than he is.

“Okay, boy,” Susie says, drawing his attention back to her. “We're all done. Just in time, too.” She grins up at him—that rare, pleased smile that he only gets when he's done all she's asked him to do and without complaint. “These should be ready by the morning, so you will start a fresh week with a fresh _ look_!”

“Thanks,” he mutters, rolling his eyes as she strips him out of his suit and hands him his robe. When all she does is huff and shoot him a look, he drops the sarcasm. “Really, though, Suse.” He waits for her to meet his eyes. “Thank you.”

“Oh, hush,” he says, waving him off as she zips up a garment bag, but he can see the pink in her cheeks, and the pleased smile trying to turn up the corners of her mouth. “Go get ready for dinner.” 

Then she's gone, leaving him alone with nothing but his robe and his prince, who's still sitting beside him.

“Go get ready for dinner?” Dean parrots, looking down at himself in nothing but his underwear with the dark blue robe clutched in his hands. “You hear that, Cas?” He looks over at his prince, who's got an eyebrow raised and a tiny smirk on his lips. “She's been dressing and undressing me all day, but I have to get my own self ready for dinner.”

“I suppose she’s tired of you for the day.” Castiel shrugs, his eyes doing a lazy tour over Dean's bared skin that has goosebumps popping up as pleasure pulses through him. 

“Well,” Dean says, pulling his robe on and tying it at the front in an effort to get his mind off all the other _ lazy tours _Castiel could take over his naked body. “Let's see how she likes it when I show up in sweatpants.”

And show up in sweatpants, he does.

Dark grey, oversized, and so cozy he could wrap himself up in a blanket in front of the fire with a cup of hot cocoa and fall asleep in them.

He pulled on a black long-sleeve as well, deciding he might as well enjoy the opportunity to get himself ready for once, even if it'll be the last time Susie lets him do anything because of it.

He plops down in a chair, his hair tousled and still a little damp from his shower—there was no way he was showing up to dinner still smelling like fucking _ egg_—and his feet tucked into the fluffiest, warmest pair of socks he could find.

Most of the chairs are empty, as they always are at Sunday dinners since Castiel usually doesn't show up and the cameras don't bother filming after a long week of non-stop work.

“Hey, Sarah,” Dean chirps when she smiles up at him from the book she has resting beside her plate. “How's it going?” 

He pours himself some water and spoons some ravioli onto his plate, his stomach already growling at the smell wafting from them—olive oil and parmesan, _ yum_.

“I'm alright, how are you?” She closes her book and sets it under her chair. “I heard you had an eventful week.”

“I, uh,” Dean says, startled by the comment, but he supposes he really shouldn't be. He _ did _have an eventful week, after all. “Yeah, I guess.” He shrugs, not even bothering to acknowledge the snort from April and the huff from Michael who, as per usual, are seated right next to Castiel's place setting—you know, just in case.

“It's not exactly proper, you know,” she starts, and Dean's hackles rise, but before he can cut the conversation off there, she continues. “But I still wish I had the courage to do it. To go out and have fun.” She shrugs, her eyes falling to her plate as she jabs her fork into the slippery pasta.

Dean's mouth snaps shut and he blinks a few times as he considers her—he knows she's a bit of a goody-goody, and far too much of a hopeless romantic for his tastes, but the thought of her sitting all alone in her room while he's out having fun kind of breaks his heart.

“If we ever do anything stupid again, I'll be sure to let you know, deal?” He arches an eyebrow, smiling around the fork in his mouth.

“Really? I don't know…” But her hesitance turns into the biggest smile he's ever seen in an instant. “Oh, what the hell? Deal.”

Before Dean can say anything more, the doors open and two guards step inside. Dean's heart skips a beat, butterflies flutter in his stomach, and warmth, like he's only ever felt with one person, takes him over.

Castiel steps inside, his own hair looking about as messy as Dean's, though he's far more put together in trousers and a black button-down.

He makes his way to the table with Dean's eyes following him the entire time, along with another set of guards, as he makes his rounds, greeting everyone in attendance before finally finding his seat right next to Dean. 

Two over from the place setting laid out for him.

“Good evening,” Castiel murmurs, intimate in a way Dean wasn't expecting.

“You never come to Sunday dinners,” Dean blurts, too surprised to be even the tiniest bit embarrassed by how rude that was. 

Castiel raises an eyebrow and gives him a dry smile. “I couldn't possibly miss the sweatpants,” he says, glancing down at Dean's attire. “Or the meltdown Susie will have when she hears of them.”

Dean chuckles, shaking his head as he stabs at another piece of his dinner. “How long d'you think I have?” He looks sideways at Castiel who’s nodding his thanks to the waiter who sets a plate in front of him. 

“Well, I ran into her on my way down the steps and might have hinted at your outfit choice for the evening, so… not long at all?” Castiel shrugs, a devious little smirk on his face as he lays a napkin in his lap and goes about righting his cutlery.

Dean laughs, high-pitched and breathy, because _ holy fuck_, Castiel really did that? He can't even be mad—how could he ever be mad?—because Castiel is having fun, and he's happy, and smiling, and fucking _ teasing _him. 

“You bastard,” Dean mutters, but his grin distorts the words—fills them with joy—and he shakes his head at the utter ridiculousness of a prince—_his _prince—playing games with their stylist. “I guess I should eat up, then, huh—”

“Dean Winchester!” Dean drops his fork back to his plate, never turning his accusatory gaze from Castiel as he sighs. 

“Yeah, Suse?” he calls as Castiel pulls his lips between his teeth to keep quiet.

“You damn-well _ know _ what!” Her sharp steps stomp towards him with every word and he gives Castiel a look like _ really? _ before he turns to face her. “Sweatpants? You chose _ sweatpants_?”

He doesn't even bother answering as she fumes, her face growing redder and redder by the second as he pushes away from the table. “Nice knowin' you, Cas. Save my dinner, would you?”

That's when Susie notices his red face and shaking shoulders. Her eyes narrow on the prince, one finger pointed right at his nose as she leans in. “You… you little brat. Don't think this is the last of it for _ you_.”

Castiel _ loses _it.

As Susie leads Dean away, his prince throws his head back on a laugh, because, really? What's Susie going to do to either of them but make Dean change and send him back?

And, honestly, Dean would do it all over again in a heartbeat to hear Castiel laugh like that.


	30. WEEK FIVE - Monday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this just before leaving for work.
> 
> Thanks again to sparrowtail for beta-reading!
> 
> Hope you like it and let me know what you think!
> 
> Okay, I need to leave.

Breakfast Monday morning has Dean in another suit—a _ new _suit from the day before, actually—and he's not even that mad about it.

It reminds him so much of the Cas Suit that he actually kind of likes it, with the thick fabric and soft blue colour. He thinks he looks nice, and he sure as hell _ feels _nice, so it's a win-win as far as he's concerned.

"Do you think they'll bring out more pancakes?" Dean asks Hannah, looking at the empty serving tray before pouting down at his syrup-soaked plate. 

"They might, but you can have mine; I'm still unwell, I think." She runs a hand over her stomach, and her face is a little pale. "On second thought, please take them away."

Dean snatches the plate out from in front of her as she closes her eyes and sways a little, but he doesn't dig in yet, more concerned about the well-being of his friend.

"Did you want me to get someone? Call the nurse?" He rubs her back as she leans into him, shivering, but her skin is on fire—she's burning up with a fever and there's no way she should be out of bed yet.

"That… would be wonderful. Thank you." Dean doesn't waste time as he flags over a staff member.

The young man in beige comes running. "Could you take her to the hospital wing?"

"Of course." The man—Andy, by the name on his uniform—wraps an arm around Hannah, helping her up, but when Dean tries to follow, she waves him off. 

"You stay here; I don't want you catching whatever I'm sick with." Dean opens his mouth to protest—she's his friend and he _ wants _to go with her—but she just shakes her head. "I will be fine; it's not even as bad as yesterday."

Dean nods, acquiescing even though he hates it. If she doesn't want him there, the only thing he can do is respect her wishes. Well, that, and visit her later.

When she's gone, he looks down at her plate of barely-touched pancakes, but he's not feeling it anymore. He hates to see them go to waste, especially since she only took a couple of bites, but… there really isn't anything he can do.

"Attention, Suitors!" Dean looks up from the plate to find Mick standing by the door, his hands clasped together in front of him as he waits for the room to fall silent.

"For fuck's sake, what does he want now?" Charlie grumbles as she plops down into Hannah's empty seat and slides the barely touched plate of pancakes in front of her, shovelling in bite after bite without a second thought.

Dean snorts, not even bothering to mention the pancakes, and leans back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest to wait.

"Right, okay!" Mick's accent carries through the room, over-loud and brisk. "You have an assignment. Or rather, a _ task _to complete this week."

"Whoopie," Charlie snarks around her stuffed chipmunk cheeks and twirls her fork in the air.

Mick doesn't hear her, or if he does, he doesn't show it as he keeps talking over the mild chatter. "You are to come up with a charitable idea over the next four days. It can be anything from food banks to political policies, but as a potential member of the royal family, it needs to work to the benefit of the kingdom." He paces as he speaks, and Dean spends so much time tracking him, he almost doesn't hear what he says. "Come up with a plan of action, a budget, and prepare to answer questions, as these will be presented in front of the king and queen on Thursday night. Got it?"

Murmurs of acknowledgement go up around the room, but Dean's already too distracted by the idea forming in his mind. Excitement bubbles up inside him as it all fits together. God, he could do this! He could _ really _do it, and actually make some sort of substantial change.

They're left to the rest of breakfast, but Dean's long done. He needs a notebook—some paper and a pen to write down everything spinning around in his mind faster than he can hold onto it.

"A charitable policy? What a load of crap," Charlie is saying, her mouth full of food even as she takes a sip of Dean's coffee. "All that means is they want us to come up with more ways to make the rich richer—wait, Dean? Where are you going?"

Dean's out of his seat and across the room before she finishes the question, but he spins around to answer her anyway. "I've got to go, but we'll catch up later, yeah?"

He doesn't wait for her answer before stepping out of the room. He's got work to do.

Some time after lunch Dean finds himself in a random sitting room on an upper level of the palace, cursing technology to hell.

"Goddamn fucking thing, why won't you _ work_?" He stabs the power button on the remote, but all the screen does is flicker to blue, then back to black as it powers down again.

Over and over and over.

He's got his information down, filling the pages of almost an entire journal, but without any sort of idea where the library is in this place, Dean wandered in here—a sitting room with tall windows and thick curtains, and overhead lights that operate on a dimmer—and, seeing the projector, decided it'd be best to try to get some slides done and on his memory stick before he's rushing to do it Thursday morning.

But it looks like that's not happening today, either.

Dean tosses the remote aside and tries fiddling with the projector again. Maybe if he could just…

"What's this?" Dean straightens up so fast his head spins, and whips around to see Castiel reaching for his notebook.

"No!" Dean shouts, his heart trying to escape through his ribcage as he leaps for the book, snatching it up and holding it to his chest before Castiel can see what's inside. "That's mine."

Castiel arches an eyebrow on a half-smirk, his interest piqued as he steps more firmly into the room with Kelly on his heels. "Is that your presentation?" Castiel asks, pointing to the little book. "What is it about?"

Instead of getting all embarrassed and blushing like he normally would, a cocky, confident smile forces its way onto Dean's face and he holds the book up between his fingers as he steps away. "I guess you'll just have to wait and see."

For a second, Castiel looks so shocked by Dean's flirty tone that he doesn't respond, but in an instant, he's taking a step closer, his eyes warming as his smile turns to something like a teasing grin. "Not even a hint? For me?"

"Nope," Dean says, popping the ‘P’ as he spins away and snatches up the remote once more with excitement fluttering in his stomach. His hands shake as he points the remote, and it does exactly the same thing it's been doing since Dean got here. "I might give you a clue if you could get this damn thing to work for me, though," Dean grumbles, not really expecting Castiel to take him up on it.

"You're adorable," Kelly laughs, taking the remote and hip-checking Dean out of the way. "You know that, Winchester? Here." She presses three different buttons on the side of the projector, then two on the remote, and does something on the laptop. Within seconds, she has the whole thing up and running.

"How the fuck did you do that?" Dean blurts, far too astonished by how easy she made that look to be concerned about his manners.

"Easy," Kelly laughs, flipping her hair over her shoulder as she grins back at him. "You're not good with tech, are you?"

"Uh, nope," Dean says, shaking his head as he watches the screen react every time she runs her finger over the trackpad on the laptop. "Could you show me some stuff?" He moves in closer, and for the next ten minutes, tries to explain in the plainest terms she can, how to turn on the projector and connect it to the computer screen.

"I don't get it." Dean huffs, feeling more frustrated and overwhelmed than he did before. 

"Here," Castiel says, stepping in between him and Kelly, their shoulders brushing as he keeps his distance from her. He does some complicated things on the computer that Dean isn't even going to try to follow, then takes Dean's hand in his.

Heat blossoms where their skin touches, Castiel's hands glove-free for once, and sparks of buzzing energy shoot up Dean's arm, sending shivers of awareness through him that have the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. 

"Place your finger here," Castiel says, guiding Dean's hand to a tiny black square in the top corner of the laptop. "This is how you will open this computer; just put your finger on the print-reader and it will unlock for you."

When Castiel turns his head to smile at Dean, he's close—so close their noses are almost brushing, and Castiel's soft breaths brush Dean's lips. All he can smell is that perfect honey-sunshine scent and whatever cologne Castiel wears, but it's perfect, and he sways into the feel of him as his breath catches and his eyes fall to Castiel's lips.

"So, uh…" Kelly says, interrupting the moment as Castiel drops Dean's hand and steps away while Dean clears his throat and turns his attention back to the screen. "Yeah, that works." She shrugs, jerky and uncomfortable, and Dean can feel the awkwardness seeping into the air.

He tries to ignore it, forcing his attention back on the mysteries of modern technology.

"So, now I can open it, but that doesn't mean I know how to use it." He glances at Castiel, catching his eyes for a second before tearing them away again as heat rises in his cheeks.

"No, but it means you can take it with you," Castiel offers, his lips turning up in a half-smile as he unhooks it from the cables and closes the top. "You can learn how it works and, of course, if you need any help, I'm only a call away."

Dean takes the laptop from Castiel's outstretched hand, feeling like he's being offered something more, but he's not sure what, and there's no way he's going to ask with Kelly here, pouting like he stole her favourite toy.

So he lets them leave, waving them out and watching as they walk down the hall with a pit in his stomach.

He knows he's not the only one here, obviously, but seeing Castiel with other suitors—spending time together and getting to know each other—is still painful. Logically, he knows it's not a betrayal, but damn if it doesn't feel like it.

Instead of worrying about it, though, Dean reopens the laptop and places his finger on the little black button, pleased as punch when it does what he wants, and spends the next half an hour trying to figure out where the PowerPoint slides are kept.

After forty-five minutes, he gives up, deciding he's a lost cause and the only option he has left is to call for Castiel.

"Hey, Cas?" Dean says, stepping up behind Castiel where he sits in his chair after dinner. He's got a notebook in one hand and a pen in the other, obviously doing paperwork, and now Dean just feels bad for interrupting.

"Yes?" He glances up from his pages, eyes wide and a little startled, but he sets it all aside and smiles when he sees that it's Dean standing there. "What can I do for you?"

The sitting room is pretty quiet tonight as everyone gets busy researching for their task, but Dean figures this is the best time to ask, so he lowers himself onto the edge of the couch and tries not to look as nervous as he feels.

"I know you're busy, what with all this," he says, gesturing at the paperwork Castiel has in a neat pile beside him. "But I'm really not getting the whole computer thing, and you said you could help, so..." He trails off, feeling embarrassed and a little stupid—and a lot like he's trying to take up all of Castiel's time—but Castiel just smiles.

"I did offer, and I meant what I said, but would you mind if I come by later? This is an urgent matter, or I would be thrilled to help you now." He looks down at his papers with a look of dismay and a surge of guilt hits Dean square in the chest.

"Yeah, of course! You're the prince first, right?" He shakes his head, feeling ridiculous and incompetent as he stands from the couch. "Don't worry about it if you don't have time; I'll figure it out." He steps away, and he knows Castiel's only half listening when he nods. "Good luck with your work, Cas."

"You as well," Castiel responds, but he's buried in paperwork once more, and barely notices when Dean slips out of the room.

"Hey, Dean!" 

Dean jumps, startled by the sudden sound in the otherwise empty hallway, and whips around to see Kelly jogging to catch up, her heels clicking on the marble floor. 

"Wait up," she pants, flipping her hair back. "D'you mind if we talk for a second?"

"Uh, sure, what's up?" He stuffs his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his heels, watching as two staff members hurry by before he focusses on her again.

"Well," she starts, and he can already hear it in her voice that this is a rehearsed speech. "Earlier today while Castiel and I were on our walk, I felt like you were trying to get his attention. He was with me—that was our time together, you know?—and I feel like you didn't respect that."

Dean tries to keep calm—he tries to understand her point of view and not be annoyed by the accusation—but what the actual fuck? They walked in on _ him_! He was minding his own business, fighting with the projector, and _ they _ interrupted him. How can that be his fault?

He screws his face up, eyebrows furrowing as he narrows his eyes. "Are you… are you joking?" he asks, and it's a serious question because she _ has _to be joking. 

Kelly huffs, her patience wavering as she crosses her arms over her chest. "No, Dean. I'm not kidding, and you know what? I'm not the only one who's noticed it." She tilts her head to the side and looks at him like he's a bratty toddler. "What with your ridiculous show yesterday, parading around in your underwear and claiming Castiel's seen you naked—come on, dude!"

Dean's jaw drops—actually _ drops_—and anger burns so hot and fast in his stomach that he thinks he's going to explode with it. He can feel his ears burning and his fists clenching, and by God, she'd better be fucking joking.

"You think I had a choice in that? That I _ planned _ it?" His voice is dangerously low, but he's frozen to the spot, too off balance to move even a muscle. "You walked in on me today, just for the record, and as for the whole _ naked _ thing, _ he _ walked in on _ me_. It was an accident, not that it's any of your business."

Every word stokes his anger hotter until he's shaking with it, his teeth clenched and stomach rolling. But it doesn't seem that Kelly's done pissing him off. "Okay, what about the club? Or the whole _ tackling _thing? What about those, huh?"

Dean actually rolls his eyes, scoffing at her audacity. "You know what?" he says, throwing up his hands as he takes a step back. "I don't owe you anything. I've always thought you were alright—that maybe we could be, I don't know, _ friends_, but I'm sick of this shit."

He turns his back to her, still fuming because how fucking dare she? And others think it, too? Really? This morning he wouldn’t have believed a word of it, but he’s starting to realize every one of the other suitors would stab him in the back to further their chances with Castiel. It hurts to know he has no real friends here, but more than anything, he aches for the lost illusion. 

He really did think they could be friends, but this is still a competition and no one is here for that. It's about time he learned that lesson, even if it had to be the hard way.

"Hey, Benny?" Dean calls through his bedroom door before poking his head out to find the burly guard standing there, looking bored out of his mind with his hands folded in front of him as he glances over his shoulder to see what Dean wants.

"Yeah, brother?"

"Have you heard from Charlie? Or anything about Hannah?" He's been thinking about them since he walked away from Kelly—they're the only two in this competition that he still considers his friends, after all—and only just realized he hasn't heard from either of them all day. 

"I have not," he drawls, but his brows come together, deepening the crease between his eyes as he shifts. "Odd, huh?"

"Yeah," Dean agrees, nodding as he peers down the dim hallway, one hand braced on the doorframe with the other on the door as concern starts to take root. "Would you mind checking on them? Hannah was in the hospital ward, but I haven't got a clue where Charlie is."

"Sure thing, Dean-o. Just lock your door while I'm gone, yeah?" Dean nods, doing as he's told and closing the door behind him. He doesn't hear Benny's footsteps start to retreat until he flips the lock, snapping it into place.

Dean sits on the edge of his bed, waiting for news as his heart tries to beat through his chest. For some reason, he's got a bad feeling about all of this, and now that he's thinking about it, it's really fucking strange that Charlie never tracked him down after breakfast. He didn't see her at lunch or dinner, either, and he kicks himself for being too preoccupied with his idea to notice her absence.

When he goes on waiting for longer than he thinks it should take for Benny to come back with information, he huffs, annoyance bubbling inside him as he pushes up from the bed and strips out of his suit.

She's probably fine. He's sure she's off with Dorothy somewhere and he's overreacting. Yeah, she's just hanging out with her girlfriend, working on her idea with the soldiers, it's no big deal. And, besides, it's far from the first day they haven't spent together.

With that thought solidifying in his mind, Dean calms down a bit, letting go of the tension in his muscles as he slips into some sleep pants and heads to the bathroom to brush his teeth before bed.

He's just finishing up, washing his faces and gargling mouthwash, when he hears a knock down the hall. 

It doesn't even occur to him that it's not Benny when he flips the lock and swings the door open wide.

"Oh." Castiel looks almost as startled as Dean feels when he finds him standing on the other side with a tray in his hands, his hair tousled from a long day, though still fully dressed in his maroon suit. "Hello, Dean."

"What, uh… what're you doing here?" Not that he's complaining, but this is just… not what he was expecting.

Castiel cocks his head to the side, eyes squinting as his hair falls over his forehead. "You requested help with your presentation."

What? But he thought Castiel was too busy? He had hardly taken a moment to listen to Dean before shooting him down, so why is he… 

Oh, who cares?

"Right!" Dean beams, stepping back to let Castiel in like he'd been expecting him all along. "I thought you had work to finish, though?" He shuts the door behind them but doesn't bother locking it this time, since Castiel would probably think that's weird.

"I did," Castiel responds as he sets the tray down on the dresser right next to his crown. He nudges it with a finger, a tiny smile on his lips. "Finish it, that is, so I came as soon as I could."

"Oh," Dean says, surprise and no small amount of delight swelling in his chest. "Okay, uh… what's that?" He points to the tray in an attempt to ignore the way the golden lamp-light illuminates Castiel's tanned skin and makes his too-blue eyes glow.

"Hot-cocoa with tiny marshmallows and pie. I thought you might like a snack while I show you how to use PowerPoint." Castiel adjusts the mugs on the tray, turning them around so they sit just so before he looks up at Dean with a shy little smile. "I hope that's alright."

Something more than just happiness fills Dean's heart, stealing the breath from his lungs as he tries to fight back the overwhelming urge to laugh. "Yeah—yeah, that's great, Cas. Thanks."

Instead of watching the way Castiel's shoulders and back muscles shift as he moves, Dean distracts himself by digging out the laptop he stowed under his bed. The slate grey top is smooth and the whole thing feels so light in his hand—it feels like he could snap it in half. The thing is _ expensive_, he knows, and he cradles it in his arms like a baby before setting it on the coffee table in front of the fire with utmost care.

Castiel laughs, startling Dean so bad he jumps before shooting a dirty look over his shoulder at the smiling prince.

"You're not going to break it, Dean," Castiel says, shaking his head like Dean’s the most adorable thing he’s ever seen. He sets the tray down beside the computer, too close for comfort as far as Dean’s concerned, but he keeps that to himself as Castiel sits next to him. They're close enough that Dean can feel the heat radiating off of him without actually touching, and he's almost grateful for it since he knows any amount of contact is bound to have all his concentration fleeing for the hills.

And goddamnit, he's going to learn how to use the fucking power-pointer if it's the last thing he does.

Dean opens the computer and unlocks it with his finger like Castiel showed him, feeling oddly proud of himself for remembering, but as soon as the screen pops up, he flushes a deep, cherry red, once again reminded why he asked for help in the first place.

"Oh, Dean," Castiel sighs, leaning in to look at the screen, which is both zoomed way in and oriented upside-down. "Were you clicking at random?"

Castiel looks over at him and shakes his head when Dean offers him a sheepish smile and a tiny, one-shouldered shrug. "I might've."

Castiel rolls his eyes but, in a few quick clicks, the screen is righted and all the open, empty tabs are closed. "Alright, now that that's sorted," he murmurs, opening something else before bringing the laptop to his thighs and turning it for Dean to see. "This is PowerPoint. To open it, you just click here." He shows Dean the little orange tab.

Dean nods, squinting at the bright screen as he tries to lock that information away for next time. "Okay."

"When you want to type on the slide, double-click on it and say what you want. This is how you change the font and size," Castiel explains, showing him the little boxes where the information goes. "You can change the theme of the slides, as well, by clicking here." Castiel clicks and a whole array of different coloured slides pop up. 

"That one," Dean says automatically, pointing to one with grey and blue accents. It's subtle and professional—exactly what he’s trying for. 

Castiel chuckles, clicking on the square for Dean. It pops up right away, and Dean grins at the neat little trick. "I suppose there weren't many computers at your school?" Dean looks up when Castiel asks the question, finding curious blue eyes staring back. There's no judgment there, or pity—it's a serious question and Dean's grateful for that.

"There weren't _ any_, actually. We learned from old books and notetaking." He shrugs, trying to ignore the way his stomach flips. He knows he's already at a disadvantage here, what with his lack of money and status, but he's sure there's more to this presentation than just something to do, so the fact that he can't even make the damn thing without help isn't promising.

"Hmm," Castiel hums, thinking to himself as Dean struggles to see the bright screen through squinting eyes.

"Is there any way to make it less bright?" Dean asks when his eyes start to water, the ache becoming too much.

"Oh, yes, sorry." Castiel taps and holds a button until the brightness dims. Dean mumbles his thanks as he looks over the screen. It doesn't seem all that complicated now that he's seeing it, and it's more just a matter of inputting the information he already has.

"Is there a way to research on here? Add pictures and stuff?"

Castiel nods, and he spends the next twenty minutes explaining to Dean all the ways he can look something up and add it to his presentation. 

When he finally runs out of questions, asking everything he can think of, the whole thing feels a lot less daunting and he's so endlessly grateful for Castiel's patient understanding that he could kiss him right now.

But he doesn't.

"Any more questions?" Castiel looks up from the screen, somehow closer to Dean than he was when he sat down. Their shoulders brush with every breath, heating Dean's exposed skin with a warm flush as every part of him sinks into Castiel's closeness.

"Don't think so, no," Dean murmurs, more focussed on the way the golden lamp-light casts shadows on his prince’s cheekbones and the hollows of his face. 

"Alright," Castiel says, far quieter now—more intimate than instructing—as he leans closer. "I suppose I'm finished here, then." He shifts in his seat, looking like he's not finished at all—like there's so much more he wants to say and do—and Dean wants all of it, and he wants it _ now_.

"But we haven't touched the snacks," he blurts, feeling his heart kick against his ribcage as Castiel shifts to stand. He follows his movements as Castiel freezes, stuck halfway between standing and sitting as he looks at the still-full tray.

He plops back down, a smile touching his lips. "Yes, I guess you're right." Castiel turns his grin on Dean as he reaches for the lukewarm cocoa and hands a pristine, hand-painted, more-expensive-than-Dean’s-entire-house mug to him. "Can't let it go to waste," he says, then takes a sip.

Dean does the same and, even cold, the cocoa is rich and sweet and _ perfect_. The marshmallows are long gone, melted into the swirling brown liquid, but Dean can still taste them and a soft moan slips from his lips with the first sip.

When he opens his eyes again, it's to find Castiel watching him, his own mug raised to his open lips. His eyes flick to Dean's after a moment and, seeing that he's been caught, takes a sip with his eyes on the swirling cocoa.

"Hey, Cas?" Dean asks, speaking before he's really thought through what he wants to know.

"Hm?" Castiel hums, setting his mug aside and grabbing both plates of pie as he raises his eyebrows at Dean. “Apple or cherry?”

“What? Oh, cherry, please,” Dean answers, taking the plate without much deliberation. He swallows, second-guessing himself now. He knows he's shouldn't ask—it's really none of his business—but with the warmth of Castiel's eyes, the intimacy of how close they're sitting, and curiosity burning in his gut driving him, he bites the bullet.

"Did you…" he pauses, clearing his throat as he examines the perfectly browned crust and gooey filling. "Do you even want to do this? To get married now, I mean. Do you want it?"

Castiel pauses with his fork halfway to his lips, his gaze snapping to Dean's as apple and pastry fall from his fork and he sets it back down with the quiet _ clink _of metal on priceless china before answering. "Yes," he says, and there's not a hint of hesitation in his voice. "It was my idea, after all."

Dean chokes on cherry and syrup, slapping a hand over his mouth before it spews all over the table. "Really?" Had they mentioned that before? He can't remember, but even so, it's news to him. Castiel only nods, watching his fork as he cuts his pie up in equal, bite-sized pieces. "Why?"

"Why do I want a partner?" Castiel raises an eyebrow, only half turning his head to meet Dean's eyes, and the way he smiles sends Dean's heart racing. 

"Yeah," Dean breathes, only now noticing how sweaty his palms are and how his stomach flutters like mad. "You're only twenty-one; why so much of a hurry?"

Castiel doesn't answer right away, taking one breath, then two. He looks to the ceiling and Dean follows his gaze to the intricate raised detail and long shadows cast by the lamps. 

He starts to think maybe Castiel won't answer—the question, too intrusive, and his prince, too polite to refuse—but he sets his pie down, his hands coming to rest in his lap as he turns his torso to face Dean.

"I was lonely," he says, as simple and complex as that. "I've spent my whole life essentially by myself and the idea of feeling a deeper, more profound bond with another person…" Castiel trails off with a shrug that's so unlike him, it makes Dean smile. "It's all I have ever wanted, Dean." Castiel's face softens with deep, painful longing—the kind you spend your whole life trying to fulfill—and Dean aches for him. "I want to love, and be loved, by someone."

And Dean gets it. It's so easy to understand that feeling of wanting to be someone's _ someone_. He's been feeling it his whole life and something about hearing his own thoughts spoken back to him by the man he's falling head over heels for… it makes his heart ache and chest constrict with the need to hold on to Castiel and never let go.

But that's not what he does. Instead, he asks another stupid, intrusive question. 

"What if that person isn't here?" He kicks himself for saying it as soon as the words leave his mouth, but Castiel only smiles, soft and sure.

"I like to believe they are," he whispers, and a far-off, dreamy look takes him over. Dean just watches, seeing both a little boy and a grown man, wishing on stars for a love he might never find. Castiel looks to Dean, then, his eyes saying something Dean could never understand. "And, you, Dean? What will you do if you don't find what you’re looking for in this place?"

Dean's answer is instantaneous—he's been thinking about it for weeks, after all. "I'll join your army." 

That catches Castiel's attention, his head snapping around as his lips part on a breath. "Is that right?"

"It is," he says, a hint of defiance in his voice as he gives Castiel a curt nod, though he can't meet his eyes when he does so.

"Hm," Castiel hums, his dessert forgotten in the wake of Dean's proclamation. 

Dean waits with bated breath, both terrified of being rejected—told it's too dangerous for someone like him—and hopeful that Castiel might support him in his desire to serve him.

"If that is your wish," Castiel says, meeting Dean's stare as he scoots closer on the couch so that their knees brush with every movement. "Then who am I to stop you?" Then he smiles, his fingers lifting to trace the tiny cut on Dean's temple. "You would be good at it, too; I'm certain of it."

Dean's breath catches, his heart skipping and flipping as delight lightens the weight on his chest. He shivers from the skin on skin contact, but pleasure soars in his veins, lighting him up and setting him on fire as he leans into Castiel's touch.

The golden glow in the room intensifies as the darkness of night sinks into the corners, and the way it plays in Castiel's hair—in the soft curves and sharp edges of his face—lends the moment a warmth Dean hadn't expected. 

"I don't know," Dean whispers, his eyes falling to the space where Castiel's shirt slips to reveal his collarbone. "I'm sure there's a lot to learn."

"There is," Castiel says, thoughtful as he nods, but with his fingers tracing Dean's cheekbone and making their way into his hair, it's all Dean can do to concentrate. "But if it's something you are truly interested in, I can help you."

The intensity of emotion that swells up inside Dean in that moment is so overwhelming, he doesn't know what to do with it. Tears prickle at the back of his eyes, his windpipe closes up, and he has to clear his throat to push them back.

"Alright, Crown-Prince-turned-military-officer," Dean says, looking away as Castiel removes his hand. "Just send me home before you kick my ass, huh?" Just the thought has Dean's heart sinking like a stone. He forces a chuckle but it falls flat, and he can't bring himself to look at Castiel, who doesn’t say a word.

There's a space of silence longer than Dean's comfortable with as Castiel cleans up their barely-touched pie and cold cocoa, setting them back on the tray with so much precision that Dean can't help but feel a little bitter at the perfection of his prince. 

Then, without turning to look at Dean, who's been watching him for longer than he'll admit, Castiel speaks. "I would, you know?"

Dean scowls, "Would what?"

"Kick your ass." 

Dean scoffs, his eyes narrowing to a glare as the corners of Castiel's lips tug into a grin. "You would not!"

Castiel sits up, one eyebrow raised. "As I have told you before, I'm trained in combat, and you…" he says, trailing off as his eyes roam over Dean’s bare chest and loose-fitting sleep pants. "Are not."

Dean's lip curls at the implication, his head shooting back as he scowls. "Fine then, Prissy-Prince, pin me."

"What?" Castiel's cocky smirk drops to a frown, confusion etched into the lines on his forehead as his brow creases and he cocks his head to the side. 

"Pin me. If you're so tough and strong, pin me to the ground, and—"

There’s a blur of movement as Castiel grabs him and Dean yelps as he hits the floor, shock rushing though him as his muscles lock up. He tries to move, but there's a weight on his chest, strong hands holding his arms down, and when he pushes up with his legs, knees squeeze at his hips, holding him tight.

"No fair," Dean pouts through panting breaths as he struggles, twisting and writhing, but Castiel's got him, well, _ pinned_. "I wasn't ready."

"Oh?" Castiel grins, his own breathing a little laboured as he leans in closer, chest to chest with Dean. "I thought when you said 'pin me' you meant now, not after you finished warming up with a few stretches."

"Oh, fuck off, dickhead." Dean struggles harder, jerking and wriggling as Castiel's fingers constrict around his wrists, digging in but never bruising, and he doesn't let go. If Dean's being completely honest, he doesn't really want him to.

Every part of him is screaming at him to move closer, hold tighter—to fight against Castiel just so he can pull him in and _ kiss _him. His heart pounds against his ribcage like a drum, so hard it almost hurts, but his blood sings in his veins with every hot breath he feels against his lips. 

"Now, is that any way to speak to your military officer?" Castiel lifts an eyebrow, his face impossibly close. His hair falls to tickle Dean's forehead—pupils’ blown wide as a flush moves into his cheeks just for Dean to see.

"What is it, sunshine? Prince or officer?" Dean snarks back, tilting his chin as all the blood in his body rushes downward. God, he doesn’t think he’s ever been this close to another person, and something about it has his brain clocking out and taking a vacation. "Can't be both, so pick one."

Castiel hums, his eyes softening as his chest comes flush against Dean's, pinning him more effectively than before as his hands shift. 

The soft, thick material of Castiel's suit rubbing against Dean’s heated skin has his breath catching and he can't help the sound that whispers from him as he shifts his hips, brushing his dick against Castiel's ass in a way he prays to God Castiel doesn't notice.

"I'm the prince," Castiel argues, licking his lips as his knees lock tighter on Dean. He shifts his position, angling himself so that he’s not _ quite _ there. "I can do what I want."

Dean laughs—actually _ laughs_—at the saucy grin Castiel shoots him. "We both know that's not true; you've got more rules and no-goes than anyone I've ever met."

Castiel cocks his head to the side, sinking down until his elbows rest on either side of Dean's head, and he knows they must look like a couple of idiots, down on the floor, pressed together like horny teenagers, but Dean can't bring himself to care.

"You're right, I suppose," Castiel sighs, but there's a glimmer in his eyes as he sits up that has Dean's guard up. What's he planning? His hips shift so he's sitting just over Dean's stomach, and something about his prince doing _ that _has his thoughts spiralling. He doesn't even notice when Castiel shifts his grip on his hands. "But I have other methods of getting my way."

Dean's face screws up. "Wha—"

But the question cuts out before it’s fully formed in his mouth, forced back by the shriek that bursts from him as Castiel digs his fingers in just below Dean's ribs. "Stop!" he shouts around a giggle, wriggling to free himself from the torture as yelps catch in his throat. 

Castiel just laughs and laughs, keeping a firm grip on his wrists as he trails his fingers up to Dean's armpits, digging in hard just to hear Dean’s pleas.

"Ca—Cas, st-top!" With laboured breaths and his heart pounding in his chest, Dean doesn't know if this is heaven or hell, or maybe a little bit of both because there's Castiel's face, inches from his, filled with absolute delight. "Come on!" Dean shouts, panic in his voice because, oh God, he's going to wet himself at this rate. He kicks his feet against the hardwood floor, slipping every time he tries to push himself up.

"Ticklish, are you?" Castiel rumbles, and the sound of his voice so close to his ear, while they’re like _this_, sends heat rocketing through Dean so fast he chokes on his next breath.

"Yeah, you asshole," Dean pants, every breath ruffling Castiel's hair as he lowers himself back down, letting go of Dean's wrists to let their fingers intertwine.

"I'm sorry," Castiel whispers, but the smile on his face tells Dean he's not. Not even a little bit, but fuck, Dean doesn't _ care _ because his prince is smiling and happy and _ here_—

They both jump when the bedroom door bursts in, Dean's heart leaping into his throat as Castiel clings to him. Who—what—wh… 

His eyes fly over the lamp-lit room, and when he sees Benny with his gun trained on Castiel's head, his heart stops.

"No—" Dean shouts, cringing away from the barrel of the gun as he wraps his arms around Castiel's head. But in an instant, Benny's gun drops as his face falls from tense panic to relief.

But Dean is anything but relieved when Castiel's guards follow close behind, guns up and each face, a mask of professionalism. His whole body flames, burning hot with humiliation. He's sure they look obscene lying on the floor like this, and one look at Castiel tells him he's not alone in thinking it.

"Benny. Russell," Castiel says, greeting the other men with a curt nod as he rolls off of Dean and stands, reaching down to help him up before letting go to straighten his jacket. 

"Your highness," the man called Russell says, his tone clipped and more annoyed than Dean thinks he should be with the Crown Prince, but if Castiel notices, he doesn't react, choosing instead to step away from Dean, who's stomach rolls with dread and humiliation as he pulls his pants up from where they slipped down to below his hip bones.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if Castiel would look at him—if he shared in the embarrassment and let Dean know he’s not alone in this—but he stares straight ahead, refusing to meet Dean's eyes as they bore into his prince’s stubbled cheek.

"Your father is asking for you," one of the other guards speaks up, stepping forward as he holsters his gun and clips it in. "I would suggest some haste."

Even Dean can read between those lines, and by the look on Castiel's face—like a small child caught with his hand in the cookie jar—he knows what's coming better than Dean.

"Yes," Castiel murmurs, ducking his chin as he smooths out his hair. "Take me to him."

And without so much as a backward glance, Castiel exits, leaving the tray of half-finished treats, his crown, and _ Dean _behind with a heavy, aching heart and a rolling in his gut, waiting for the prince's return.


	31. WEEK FIVE - Tuesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Labour Day!! Hope it’s nice wherever y’all are because the weather is shitty here.
> 
> A new warning/tag for this chapter that is a potential spoiler, but I’ll include it at the bottom of this note.
> 
> THANKS A MILLION TO SPARROWTAIL FOR BETAREADING THIS! I thank you every time and I can’t believe I forgot 😭 I blame it on lack of sleep.
> 
> Let me know what you think!
> 
> ⚠️ Warnings: Poisoning/attempted murder as a warning ⚠️

"What have I learned in the last four weeks?" Dean grins, his eyes flicking to Duma as he leans forward, clasping his hands together between his spread knees. "Besides how to answer an interview question?"

"Yes, Winchester," Duma sighs, rolling her eyes at his cheeky grin. "Besides that."

He laughs, but the weight on his chest from his conversation with Kelly the night before drags the airy sound into a bitter bark. He shakes his head, looking into the middle ground by Nicholas's shoes before answering. "I've learned that making friends here isn't really at the top of anyone's priority list."

"Oh?" Duma perks up, sensing a story, but doesn't prompt him further, letting him elaborate in his own time. 

And he takes his _ time_, thinking about his careful wording and polite tone while Mick practically vibrates out of his seat in the corner. In the end, Dean decides the truth is better than a tactful, cultivated reply.

"Oh, you know, the whole, 'be careful what you say because it'll be used against you,' or, 'keep your friends close and your enemies closer,' type of thing. People I thought I could trust end up only looking out for their own best interest." Dean shrugs, though the sadness seeps into his bones and weighs him down. "I guess I really shouldn't be surprised, considering this is a competition, but I thought there might be a little more integrity in it."

"And you think the other suitors lack integrity?" Mick leans forward and he can tell just by the keen interest on the other man's face—who isn't supposed to say a word unless asked—that he's missing the point entirely.

Dean rolls his eyes on a heavy sigh. "All I'm saying is it'd be nice to have someone to hang out with even when the prince is around, but especially when he's not." Dean flaps his hands around, struggling to make sense of his words. "This place is boring as all hell when Castiel isn't around, and filling that time with friends would make it easier on all of us, I'd think."

He huffs, his rant petering out as he leans back on the stool. He let his emotions get away from him, he knows, and he hates that his voice holds more hurt than anger, but there isn't really much he can do about that now, is there?

"So, what _ do _you do when the prince isn't around?" Duma pipes up after far too long, grabbing Dean's attention and pulling it back to her. 

"Wander the palace, mostly," Dean says, then cringes when his words register. "Not supposed to do that, am I?" He lets out a nervous chuckle but plays it off with a shrug. What are they going to do? Kick him out? Lock him in his room when the cameras aren't around?

Duma just waves a hand at him, a silent signal that they're moving on. "Tomorrow is the last day for Fan-Favourites, as I'm sure you know. How does it feel to be number one, two weeks in a row?"

Dean's heart thuds as nerves flood him, sending a swarm of butterflies into his stomach as he swallows back his anxiety to answer the question.

"It feels fake, honestly—like someone made a mistake while counting the votes." Another nervous laugh as he pushes a hand through his hair. Honestly, though? He's not even joking because it all feels like one giant _ fuck you _ from the universe. Sure, he's the people's favourite, but he wants to be Castiel's favourite more, and he'd gladly trade first place with the people to be his prince's number one. "I'm no one's favourite; they just feel bad for me. Kind of like the underdog, I guess."

With a shrug and a cute little smile, Dean pushes past the sadness swelling in his chest, and he hopes it's enough to fool Duma, too.

Instead of moving on, though, Duma looks at him for a moment, searching for something in his eyes that he doesn't understand. For a second, he thinks she sees it, and maybe she does, but she breaks eye contact moments later to turn to her assistant and whisper in his ear.

"Right away, ma'am," the young man murmurs, then he's gone, stepping from the room and disappearing into the brightly lit hallway beyond. God, how Dean wishes he could slip out with him—to escape this proverbial examination room and get lost in the winding halls of the palace.

But a few minutes later, he's back with a four-inch stack of paper clutched between both hands. 

"Thank you, Joshua," Duma says, taking the papers before holding them out to Dean.

"What, uh…" He takes them without really thinking about it, feeling the weight of so much paper in his hands as he squints down at the words. "What's this?"

"Reviews, thoughts, opinions, and testimonies." Duma rests her elbow on her crossed knees, and her chin in her palm, watching as Dean reads the first line. "All about you."

"_He's sweet, that one_," Dean reads aloud, his heart racing as his hands start to shake. "_Like a little ray of sunshine_. Who wrote these?" He looks up at Duma, confusion and disbelief mixing inside him in a ball of emotion. 

"Viewers," she says, as simple as that. She shrugs, but a smile pulls at her lips, like she's happy with them, and with Dean, too. "We ask for more information when they vote. You know, the standard 'why did you pick this person?' kind of thing."

Words catch in Dean's throat, stuck on his shock, and his mouth hangs open as his eyes fall back to the page. "_The local boy with his one-man show? He'll bring some laughter back into the palace_."

"From an older gentleman?" Duma asks, and when Dean reads the name, he recognizes it as the butcher who used to cut the ends off of pork roasts for him to take home to his mom. 

"Yeah," Dean murmurs, but he just reads on and on, recognizing some names, but most are new to him—strangers all rooting for his love story's happy ending. "I don't know most of these people."

"I wouldn't imagine so, no." Duma watches him with a peculiar interest he doesn't understand. There's a twinkle in her eye and a half-grin on her face, but Dean chooses to ignore it for now, too caught up in the mind-blowing words of strangers. 

_ He makes the darling prince so happy—just look how he smiles! _ ... _ I remember him at ten years old, jabbering about the little prince… Castiel deserves someone like him… The Winchester boy looks at his highness like he hung the moon. _

And on and on and on.

It's almost embarrassing to know how bad he is at hiding his feelings, but the warmth blossoming in his chest is soft and fuzzy, making him feel more loved than he has in so long. 

"This is all of them?" Dean says after a while, holding up the stack and looking to Duma for an answer. He's all but forgotten the camera, though he does take note of the little red light that tells him they're still rolling.

"From this week. There are many, _ many _more," Duma answers, a hint of exasperation bleeding into her words, and Dean smiles at the implication.

Maybe they do like him after all.

"Come on, brother," Benny says as soon as Dean steps out of his interview, and his heart sinks when he's reminded that his day's not done yet. "You're gonna be late."

"Ugh," Dean groans, throwing his head back with a dramatic flop. "Whose idea was this, anyway?" 

"His Royal Heinies," Benny says, leading Dean down the hall, but not before he shoots a smirk over his shoulder. 

"You'll be in shit if he ever hears you calling him that." Dean smiles just thinking about the offence on his prince’s face.

"Which is why he'll never hear of it." Benny shoots him a warning glare, but there's no real threat in it. 

"What do you think he'd do," Dean muses, taunting Benny as he makes a show of looking up at the ceiling as he walks. "Would he fire you? Kick you out of the palace? Hmm…" He drops his head and meets Benny's eyes when he turns to glare at him. "Torture, maybe?"

A low growl rumbles from the guard as his eyes narrow to slits, and Dean just goes on grinning. "You're pushing your luck, Winchester."

"What can I say?" he says with an _ I'm adorable and I know it _ shrug. Benny rolls his eyes. "Besides, Cas is a teddy-bear; he wouldn't do anything more than scold you."

Benny stops, turning to face Dean head-on, all signs of humour gone from his eyes. "I'll only warn you once, Dean," he says, his voice low and meaningful, and it's like a bucket of ice-water over Dean's head. "His highness might be sweet on you, but make no mistake; that man is just as ruthless as any Novak before him."

"Winchester, hurry up!" 

Dean huffs as he stumbles into the changing room wall, his foot caught in his pants as he struggles to pull them up. God, who would've thought he'd forget how to dress himself after only four weeks?

"Almost… ready!" he calls, doing up his pants and tucking his shirt into them. Of course, Susie's going to bitch when she sees the promotional photos. He already knows that, but if she wants him to have a perfectly smoothed shirt, she should be here to put it on him herself.

He swats the curtain out of his way, feeling dishevelled and rushed as he steps into the event hall. It's so beyond stifling in here, with the bright lights and endless equipment, he wonders how any of them can look halfway decent.

"Hair and makeup are that way." Right, that's how. 

He nods at the tiny man and heads over to the far wall where a row of mirrors are set up, the tables in front of them cluttered with every kind of product imaginable. 

Most of the seats are filled already, but with a quick glance, Dean sees that both Charlie and Hannah are absent. And now that he thinks of it, Benny never did tell him what he learned last night. Maybe that means they're okay? 

But why aren't they here, then?

"Sit, Winchester, sit." He's forced into a seat by two strong hands pushing down on his shoulders, and his knees buckle. It's not Susie behind him, but another woman he's never met before. Her blond hair is done up in a tight knot, and her eyes are shrewd and icy. 

For some reason, this feels like a betrayal to Susie but, again, she chose not to be here, so… "God, your hair is a mess." The woman's thick accent grates on his nerves, especially with the haughty tone and the way her mouth pinches up. Dean shoots her a glare in the mirror, and in a moment of pettiness, he ruffles it up some more when her back is turned.

"Who styled this travesty?" she mumbles, digging through her bags and not paying attention as Dean combs his hair into a mohawk. "It's embarrassing, honestly—"

Her words cut off when she stands up, clocking Dean's handy work and shooting him a withering glare in the mirror. He grins, batting his lashes with so much faux innocence, it's sickening.

"That's how it'll be, then?" She lifts an eyebrow, disdain soaking her words. "Have it your way." She pulls out an electric razor.

Dean doesn't even flinch. "Wouldn't do that if I were you," he warns, his grin morphing into a smirk, and she stops.

"Why is that?"

Dean bites his bottom lip, holding back a grin as delight bubbles up inside him because, out of the corner of his eye, a tiny figure dressed in beige bursts through the door.

"Susie's here."

"And who is _ Susie_—"

She cuts herself off when Susie snatches the razor from her hands, outrage written all over her pinched face. 

"Heya, Suse," Dean murmurs, offering her a smile as a feeling of comfort washes over him. 

"Not now, boy," she snaps, and yes, that's his Susie. She turns her glare on the other woman and holds up the razor. "Toni Bevell," she says like the two are familiar. "I ought to use this on you for getting anywhere near my boy's hair with it."

Through the mirror, Dean watches as the whole scene unfolds, and it's almost like a sitcom, but funnier. 

"Susanna Sampson; I should've guessed. Still his highness's lapdog, are you?" Toni, as Susie called her, smirks, lifting a delicate hand to her lips as she crosses the other arm over her stomach. 

Dean's gaze goes from one to the other, volleying back and forth over the top of his own head. 

Susie ignores the remark, but Dean can see her anger in the way her fist clenches around the razor. "How'd you weasel in here? Couldn't cut it as a pet groomer?"

Toni's face darkens, her eyes narrowing as her cheeks burn, and she leans into Susie's space. "You and I both know—"

"Ten minutes! This is your ten-minute warning!" Mick calls from his spot on a raised platform, clipboard in hand and headset on.

Toni shoots Susie one last daggered glare before storming off, and then it's just her and Dean. 

"Good God, what did she do to you?" Dean laughs at the horror in her voice, and when she meets his eyes in the mirror, he shrugs.

"I did that."

Her eyes narrow further as she presses her lips into a thin line.

"She said my hair was a mess, so I made it one."

Susie sighs, her annoyance melting away as she tosses the razor aside and combs her fingers through his hair. "You're a good boy, you know?" Then she pats his cheeks with both hands and turns away to gather her things.

Dean smiles, proud of himself for once. He holds onto that warm, fuzzy feeling for a long as he can, once again feeling more loved than he ever has before.

Who the hell decided they'd all be dressed in the same shade of blue? Sure, it's Amarellino blue but, God is it depressing.

Dean stands in line where he's told with a pearly while rose clipped to his lapel and cufflinks of the same shade. He's sure Michael is dressed the exact same as him, but all the women are dressed in long-sleeved, flowing gowns that dip in the front with a slit up to the knee. 

They look nice, he'll admit, but something about being dressed the same just feels… impersonal. Like _ they're _ all the same.

Whatever. Dean just hates this.

The event hall is filled with noise, and it ricochets off the walls like an echo chamber, compounding until Dean's head aches. The staff have the floor to ceiling windows covered in drapes, so the only lighting is the unnatural, harsh glow of the photographers’ lamps. 

Black drapes, photo setups, and flash reflectors fill half the room, and there's so much chaotic energy buzzing around, Dean can't figure out how anyone would find this _ fun_. 

He likes the quiet… the peace.

But it looks like that's still hours away, and he drags his feet as he steps up in line, waiting for his turn at personal shots.

With only five of them there, it doesn't take long, and he wonders what they'll do about the others. Surely, they'll have to have promotional material for all eleven of them, right?

Dean's heart sinks again just thinking about it—does that mean they'll have to do this _ again_?

"Next," the photographer calls in an Amarellino accent thicker than Susie's, and Dean jumps, realizing he's at the front of the line. He steps up, waiting at the edge of the sheet while the tall, thin man adjusts something out of Dean's sight.

The man is in dark slacks that hang off of him like billowy curtains, and his thin shoulders look almost boney. He doesn't look unhealthy, though, and his round face hints at a love of sweets. 

"My name is Carson, Mr. Winchester," he says, his back still to Dean. "You may call me Carson and _ only _ Carson." Dean nods, taken aback by the clipped instruction, but he doesn't bother speaking as Carson turns to look at him. "For your first pose—holy _ heavens_!" 

Dean blinks, startled, and looks around for whatever has Carson's dark eyes bulging out of his skull. "Um…"

But it only takes a second for Dean to realize he's looking at _ him_. 

"Those _ cheekbones_! My God, and your eyes! Perfect," he mumbles something about the scratch on Dean's temple as he tilts his head up and to the side with a finger under his chin.

Dean frowns, jerking away from the grabby hands. What the hell is he doing? "Can you not?" He bats the man's hands away and wipes the clammy sweat from his face.

"My apologies, Mr. Winchester. I don't mean to, but…" He comes close again, eyes tracing over his face as Dean leans away. "You are just so handsome—so perfect for the camera! She will love you, come, come!" 

He spins away, moving faster than Dean would think possible on his spindly legs, but Dean does as he's told, stepping forward and looking around for a moment, not sure what to do next. 

"Do I just…" He looks at the stool, but Carson waves him away.

"No, I want you standing. Marsha!" Dean jumps, looking around for a Marsha, who comes running, her hair a mess and a frazzled look in her eyes. "Take the stool, please." She does, and then Dean's being manhandled into position. 

It all happens so fast, he hardly has time to process, but one moment he's standing there, confused and overwhelmed, and the next, he's got a prop crown held between his hands, standing in front of the black sheet. It's almost an exact replica of the crown sitting on his dresser, except far lighter, as he'd expect. Just thinking about Castiel's crown has his lips twitching in a smile and warmth flooding his heart.

"Good! Good, now tip your chin down and look up at the camera." Dean does as he's told. "Yes!" There's a camera flash, then two. Carson gives him more directions—close his eyes a little… stand straighter… hold the crown higher—and at some point, Dean actually starts having fun.

"Oh, how the camera _ loves _you!" Carson says, practically shouting with every picture, and maybe Dean likes the compliments, but it's got his confidence soaring. 

Pose after pose, they keep going, and after a while, Dean can't help but laugh at the ridiculous praise Carson shouts. It's got him throwing his head back and laughing to a chorus of _ click-click _and, "Yes! Stunning! A model in the making!"

He doesn't know how long they carry on for, moving out from in front of the sheet and into the hallway, where the natural like "lends to your natural beauty" as Carson puts it. Dean's put in front of pillars and plants, windows and archways. He's told to smile, then look away. To laugh and to move. 

And he does, and it's _ genuine_. He came into this photoshoot expecting to hate every second of it, but it's all so ridiculous and fun that he doesn't want it to end. 

"Are you about finished with him, Mr. Danfore?"

Dean jumps at the sound of Castiel's voice, the soft, rumbling tone sending delighted little shivers through him. 

"Oh, your highness, I was, uh…" Carson shifts, fiddling with his camera and looking at the floor. 

"You got carried away?" 

"Yes, sir; he's very beautiful, you know?" Carson looks up at Dean with an earnest smile and Dean can't help the grin that spreads his cheeks. 

"The camera _ loves _me, Cas," he says, looking at his prince with so much joy, he can see it shining back at him in Castiel's grin. 

"I'm sure it does." Castiel nods, inspecting Dean's face and clothes for a moment, appreciation glowing in his eyes as he steps closer. "But I'm not allowed to eat until my photos are taken, as per Susie's instruction." 

"Oh," Dean says, disappointment sinking in. He's not ready to be done yet, even if his stomach is starting to grumble.

"Sir, uh, your highness?" Carson cuts in, looking up at Castiel with wide eyes. "Would it be alright if Mr. Winchester, here, joined you in some photos?"

Dean flushes at the thought. He'd love to, of course, but the idea of a photo with Castiel feels so intimate. Just the suggestion has his blood singing, wanting to be near him—close enough to touch. He wants to smile at him, and look at him, and be captured in a million moments with his prince.

He wants it so bad, but does Castiel?

"Dean?" Castiel says, not quite in a whisper, but close enough to it that Dean looks up, meeting Castiel's too-blue eyes in the fading evening light. "Would you like to join me?"

Dean takes a moment, trying to decide if it's really what his prince wants. He looks him over from head to toe, finding that he's wearing the same outfit from Saturday night. Except for the crown, of course.

"I… yeah, if you really want me to." The vulnerability in his words is so plain to here, but Castiel's answering smile tells him all he needs to know. 

"Of course." Castiel turns to Carson. "What do you need from us?"

Carson straightens up, camera held to his chest as he twitches. "Your crown, sir. We have a replica, but the real thing would be so much better."

Dean looks at Castiel, who is already looking at him, and a soft blush creeps up his neck and into his cheeks. 

"I'll go get it," Dean murmurs, and takes off before Carson and Castiel's guards can ask him why he has it.

The halls aren't quite empty yet, but Dean knows they will be soon enough, so he holds out in his room for a few minutes before sneaking into the hall. It's not that he's all that worried about having the crown, but he's not too keen on starting up rumours, either.

Even in the fading sun coming through the tall windows, the crown throws light, sending fractured beams across the marble floor that might be pretty, if it didn't catch the attention of every staff member he passes.

He ignores them, though, continuing on with his heart in his throat.

After a few wrong turns and one _ very _similar door, Dean finds the event hall. He steps through the door, sweaty and a little flustered, only to have his heart drop into his shoes when he finds Castiel getting his picture taken with the other suitors. Well, most of them—Hannah and Charlie still aren't here.

He steps inside, the crown swinging at his side as he waits, listening to Carson's praise and trying not to let his jealousy show. It sours his stomach, though, turning the butterflies to bees the longer they go on, laughing and smiling.

How many times does he need to be reminded that he's not the only one here before it stops hurting so damn much?

"Okay, okay!" Carson calls, and if his voice doesn't sound quite so warm directed at the others, well that's a tiny win for Dean. "Where is the Mr. Winchester?" 

Dean pushes away from the wall, forcing a smile as he lifts the crown. "Here," he calls, taking a step closer and trying not to feel delighted when Castiel looks up with happiness in his eyes at the sight of him.

"Good." Carson nods, then turns to the others. "The rest may leave; you've had your turn. Go on, leave." He shoos them away, and Dean tries not to notice the scowl Castiel shoots the pushy photographer, but he doesn't call him on it, either.

Dean waits while the others gather their things to go. Or he tries to, but they take their damn time, hanging around and chatting, watching as Dean steps up beside Castiel and tries to pass him the crown.

Castiel stands, though, and shakes his head. "Would you mind doing it? It will be crooked if I try."

"Uh, sure," Dean murmurs, and with the utmost concentration, he sets the crown on his prince's head. After a moment of straightening it, he catches Castiel's eyes and smiles. "What?"

A camera flash—two, then three—but Dean just goes on staring, his fingers holding the crown as they stand far too close, smiling secret little smiles at each other.

"It was probably fine the first time you adjusted it," Castiel murmurs, quirking an eyebrow with a half-smirk. 

Dean scrunches up his nose and drops his hands to his sides before he does something stupid like drag Castiel in for a kiss. 

God, he wants to—and Castiel would probably let him, what with the way his prince is looking at him like he's the only one in the room—but Dean can still see his guards in the periphery and he knows the other suitors are just behind him.

Over the next hour, as the other suitors eventually filter out, Carson has him and Castiel pose for countless photos. 

"Your highness, sit in the throne. Yes, good, just like that, and Mr. Winchester." Dean looks up from where Castiel sits, all regal and proper, and so goddamn good looking that he can hardly stand it. "I want you to stand behind him and hold onto the back." 

Dean does as he's told, standing behind Castiel and gripping the top corners of the chair as he looks at the camera. With a few adjustments to the angles, Carson snaps a photo.

"Doesn't this feel kind of menacing?" Dean murmurs, catching Castiel's attention, who cocks his head to the side. "You know, I'm standing over you like a creep." 

Castiel looks up at him, a twisted smile on his face as he squints, and something about the way he's dressed with _ that _look on his face has Dean breaking out in a fit of giggles.

He leans back, holding onto the throne before pulling himself back in, and Carson snaps away. 

"I would normally say no," Castiel says in answer to his question, "But knowing you as I do, now I'd rather have you anywhere but behind me."

"You scared?" Dean teases, lifting an eyebrow as he bites his bottom lip. "I do owe you, don't I?"

Castiel scowls that trademark Novak scowl. "Whatever for?"

"Don't play dumb." Come on, there's no way he thinks he's getting away with the tickle-attack. There will be payback. But Castiel just cocks his head, a question in his eyes. "You tickled me until I almost wet myself."

Castiel's lips press together to hold back a smile, and the twinkle in his eyes tells Dean he knows exactly what he means. "I don't recall," he says instead, and Dean just rolls his eyes.

"_I don't recall_," he mocks in a high-pitched, whiny voice that makes him sound like a twelve-year-old girl. "Bullshit, you don't recall."

"One more," Carson says, loud enough to get their attention as he plucks something up from the table. "Here, Mr. Winchester." He passes Dean a sapphire rose just like the ones Castiel hands out.

Dean takes it, and with one touch, he can tell it's fake, but just looking at it could have him fooled. He glances up at Castiel, a smirk tugging at his lips as he holds it out to him. "Will you accept this rose, Castiel?" 

With one raised eyebrow and a bland look, Castiel takes the rose and bops Dean on the nose with it. "Would you rather I not offer you one?"

Dean snatches it back as his heart does a little hop, skip, jump. "You'd miss me too much if I left." 

Castiel opens his mouth to respond, but Carson interrupts first. "Mr. Winchester, I need you to hold the rose in your hand and look here. Chin down, eyes up—those _ lashes_." 

Dean blinks a few times, batting the eyelashes in question, and glances over at Castiel to find him watching with rapt attention. But Dean does as he’s told while Castiel stands off to the side and Carson snaps more pictures than he probably needs.

"Your highness," Carson says, but Castiel never tears his gaze from Dean's. "Please hand Mr. Winchester the rose for this one."

Without a word, Castiel steps forward and, in an instant, the playful, teasing tone is gone as he takes the rose from Dean's hand, their fingers brushing as he does.

Then, while looking Dean straight in the eyes, and in the softest, most serious tone he has, he whispers, "Dean, will you accept this rose?"

Dean takes hold of the stem as the camera flashes, their fingers stuck in the middle ground as neither lets go. 

And in his head, he's screaming, _ yes, yes, yes! _

He knows then, as he always has, that his answer will forever be _ yes_.

"Do you think dinner has started already?" Dean asks as he and Castiel walk from the West end of the palace all the way to the other side. God, he hadn't realized how far they were, but now, with his stomach rumbling and his head starting to ache, it feels like miles away.

Castiel glances at his wristwatch, then lets out a sigh. "Not yet, though we might be a tad late if we don't hurry."

Dean picks up the pace with a little hop, keeping up with Castiel and his guards as they take a winding flight of stairs down to the next floor.

"Hey, Cas?" Dean asks again as a thought hits him. Castiel glances over but doesn't speak. He just waits for Dean to continue. "Any idea where Charlie and Hannah were today?"

Castiel looks at him for a moment, his eyes getting more narrowed as a crease forms between his brows. "They're in the hospital wing, Dean. Did you not know?"

Dean's heart sinks to his shoes, his stomach swooping as fear crawls up his spine. "N-no," he stammers, worry for his friends stealing his breath. "What's wrong?" 

He's all but forgotten his hunger now, and every part of him is telling him to find them; to make sure they're okay. God, he's a terrible friend. How could he go _ two days _without checking in on them?

"Come, Dean," Castiel whispers, his voice calm in the wake Dean's panic. "I will take you to them."

Dean doesn't argue, following Castiel through the winding halls and stairwells, down, down, down into the deepest part of the palace he's ever gone before.

"The doctors think it's food poisoning," Castiel murmurs as Dean sits by Charlie's bedside, wiping her clammy forehead with a cool cloth as she shivers from a fever. "It's nothing like I've ever seen before, though, and they're the only two with the illness…"

Something about this whole thing isn't sitting right with Dean, because Castiel's right; no one else is sick, and they all eat the same food.

"Could it be a food allergy?" Dean asks, hoping that's the case because his other suspicion is far more sinister.

When he looks to Castiel, the young prince is shaking his head, staring down at Hannah as she shivers in her bed. "Hannah doesn't have any food allergies," he murmurs, his brows pinched together as he takes a step closer to Dean.

Dean closes his eyes as his heart sinks again. It would make sense… it would, but what kind of trouble would he be in for making this sort of accusation? 

And does it even matter? His friends are sick, after all; any chance at getting to the bottom of this before even _ more _of them fall victim is more important than his own safety.

After all, Charlie did eat Hannah's pancakes.

"Cas," Dean whispers, so low he's surprised the prince hears him at all. He doesn't look away from Charlie's ashy face when he speaks, but he can feel Castiel's warm breaths on his neck when he leans down to hear. "What if…" he pauses, swallowing the lump in his throat before turning his face into Castiel's ear. "What if they were poisoned?"

He feels it more than anything when Castiel's breath catches, and his own heart thunders in his chest now that the words are spoken. He can practically see the same bodily reaction he's having reflected back at him in his prince, though Castiel springs into action far fasting than Dean.

"Russell," he says, calling his head of security forward. "Don't let anyone eat the food," he instructs, and when the man just stands there, his mouth hanging open as he struggles for words, Castiel barks it out like an order. "Go! Run now!"

Russell jumps, but spins on his heels and takes off.

He turns away from Dean, all business now, and flags the doctor down. "I want them checked for poison—any oddity in their system at all—and then the food coming from the kitchens as well. Report back to me."

The doctor nods, looking startled and more than a little jumpy as she bobs her head in a vigorous nod before barking orders at her staff.

Dean steps out of the way as they move in to test his friends. Are these the consequences Castiel was talking about? Is this what will happen to him if he's not sent home, too? And, God forbid, will this _ keep _happening to his friends if Castiel refuses to send him away?

He tries to stay calm—to remind himself that they don't even know if it's poison yet—but something tells him it is, and a deeper, darker part of him keeps whispering that Hannah and Charlie aren't really the intended targets.

He is.


	32. WEEK FIVE - Wednesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, y'all! Sorry this is so late, but I haven't really had time to focus on big projects lately.
> 
> Thank you to sparrowtail for beta-reading this. You're the best.
> 
> Anyway, let me know what you think in the comments!

He switched his salad for her soup on Sunday... He took her pancakes when she couldn't eat yesterday… 

It's all Dean can think about all night as they sit in the hospital wing, starving, but not really caring, as the food is tested. 

They have to wait longer for Hannah and Charlie's results, but he already knows they're positive. He can feel it in his bones, and at this point, he almost hopes he's right because at least they can treat the problem if they know what it is.

Now, though, he wanders through the halls, up the stairs and back to his room with Benny close behind. Castiel had food brought to them in the early hours of the morning—around three o'clock if he remembers right—but he could hardly touch it.

The sun just barely crests the horizon, flooding the grounds outside the tall windows in a splash of golden light. It's beautiful, he'll admit, but the darkness of the past few hours won't let him appreciate it like he wants to.

Back in his room, Dean falls face-first into his pillow, so bone-tired he can't even bring himself to change out of his suit. The makeup stays on too, and he knows he'll be in shit for it, but he's just too exhausted to care.

With the sun steadily rising, Dean falls fast asleep while he can.

He wakes slowly, rolling to his back with a satisfying stretch that has him groaning as his limbs shake. The sigh that rolls from his lips morphs into a yawn halfway through, and it's not until he opens his eyes that he remembers.

Dean sits up, his head pounding as the sleepy haze fades away and he's left with stomach-turning anxiety about the fate of his friends.

"Benny?" Dean calls, scrambling to untangle his shoes from the sheets. "Fuck, shit," he mumbles, hitting the floor with a thud before dragging himself up and stumbling for the door. "Benny?"

Dean pulls it open, flustered and disoriented, but Benny's not there. He scowls, looking up and down the hallway for his guard, but he's alone. He huffs, pulling the door closed behind him before flopping down on his bed with a little bounce.

What time is it anyway?

Dean swings around, searching for the bedside clock's bright red numbers. Nine o’clock? Does that say _ nine o’clock_?

Where the hell is Susie?

Dean huffs again but decides he'd better get a shower while he can do it for himself, and pushes up from the bed, feeling shaky and a little nauseated. What the hell is wrong with him?

He rubs his forehead, feeling a light sheen of sweat, and frowns, stopping in his tracks. Did he… 

No, there's no way. He didn't eat anything before the food was checked. He's fine.

Dean strips out of his suit once he’s in the bathroom, the cool air hitting his heated skin and sending a shiver down his spine. It feels good, actually—it clears his head and soothes his rolling stomach—so he puts it all down to the fact that he slept in his suit and probably cooked his insides with the heat on and the curtains open to let the sunshine in.

Yeah, that's it. 

"Where the hell were you this morning?" 

Benny glances up at him, startled by the outburst by the looks of it, but he follows after Dean on his way to breakfast.

"Looks like someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed," Benny drawls, a laugh in his tone that Dean doesn’t appreciate. "I was checking on your friends who, by the way, _ were _poisoned, like you guessed, and are now being treated accordingly."

Dean sags with relief, stopping where he stands to let it sink in. They're okay—they'll be fine. "Good," he breathes, closing his eyes and rubbing both hands down his face. "Thanks, Benny."

"Anytime, brother." He slaps Dean’s shoulder as he passes, jostling him a bit, before leading on. "Dressed yourself this morning, did you?"

Dean scowls, looking down at the charcoal suit he threw on after his shower, forgoing the vest and tie. "Yeah," he answers, a question and a challenge. "And?"

"And nothing," Benny says, holding up his hands as he pivots to walk backwards before spinning around again. "All I'm saying is you could've put in a bit more effort and dried your hair."

"Oh, bite me," Dean grumbles, ruffling his damp hair with a pout. He _ tried _to dry it, okay? Not his fault the damn blowdryer is so complicated.

Dean steps through the dining hall doors to find the room filled to bursting with guards in dark suits and doctors on standby. As if it wasn't already crowded enough with the camera crew, they now have extra cameras as well, ready to catch anything amiss.

"Might as well alert the cavalry," Dean mutters, rolling his eyes when he sits down and a plate is immediately placed in front of him by a gloved server. He gives her a tight smile but doesn't get the chance to voice his thanks before she scurries away.

"Don't think he didn't try," Benny says from right behind Dean, and his heart stutters as he looks over his shoulder at the burly bear of a man.

"You just going to stand there?" 

"Those're my orders."

"For fuck's sake." Dean turns back to his bacon and eggs with a huff, feeling eyes on him from every direction. He gets it, of course; they need to be careful, and the last thing he wants is for anyone to get sick again, but he's already feeling a bit queasy from the heat, and the noise is giving him a headache. 

All he wants is a peaceful breakfast, goddamnit. Is that too much to ask?

When Castiel steps in, the murmuring starts up around the table, and it occurs to Dean that the others probably have no idea what's going on. 

April and Michael sit a little taller like the whole thing inflates their sense of self-importance. Sarah and Kelly just look confused, if not a little scared.

And still, Hannah and Charlie aren't here.

Dean doesn't panic, though, knowing they're in their rooms drinking lots of fluids and resting up—doctor's orders. 

What's weird is that Castiel doesn't bother saying good morning to any of them. It hurts, if Dean's being honest, but he doesn't let it sour his morning any more than it already is. Castiel is just tired—he was up all night trying to figure out what happened. He's allowed to have an off day, and Dean should respect that.

Even if he does glance over at his prince more often than he should, only to find him looking into his food.

"Knock knock," Dean says, rapping his knuckles on Charlie's open door as he steps inside. She glances up, still pale and sickly, but the smile that lights up her face lets him know his fiery friend is still here, and it calms something inside him he didn't even know was there.

"Hey, pretty boy," she croaks, her eyes following him as he drags her desk chair to the side of her bed and flops down on it. "Long time, no see."

He rolls his eyes, but a smile tugs at his lips as he hands her some water. "How're you feeling?"

"Like I was poisoned," she grumbles, taking a sip from her cup before handing it back. "Who the fuck does that, anyway?"

Dean snorts, ruffling his now-dry hair and kicking his feet up on her bed. "Someone's got it out for you," he says, but even as the words leave him, something twists in his stomach—it tugs on his thoughts and reminds him… reminds him.

"And Hannah," Charlie adds, closing her eyes as her head sinks into the pile of pillows stacked behind her. 

"Yeah."

They're silent for a while—Charlie, lying with her eyes closed as her breathing starts to even out, and Dean, thinking too hard about what really happened to them. 

And _ why_. That's his biggest question. Why Hannah? And if not Hannah, why him? Who poisoned the food and how did they manage to fuck up so badly? Or not fuck it up. Maybe Hannah was the target all along?

"See you later, Char," Dean whispers as he stands to go, but she doesn't stir, already deep in sleep as he slips from the room.

"Come on, Winchester!" Dean laughs, shaking his head even as he strips out of his suit jacket and toes off his shoes. "Get that fine ass out here! Yes!"

He jogs over, rolling up his shirt sleeves and undoing a few buttons as a soccer ball is kicked around from guard to soldier, and soldier to suitor.

Even Kelly is out here, her heels tossed aside and her hair tied back. Sarah is across the field, tying her dress up as she shimmies on the spot. Only April sits out, watching with barely-veiled interest from a nearby bench.

Michael and Castiel left for their lunch date shortly before the rest of them gathered out here, and now, after the tables are cleared away and the clouds moved on, leaving the sun to shine down on them and warm their chilled bones, they're all feeling a bit restless.

"We get Winchester," Caesar calls from one of the make-shift goal posts, his shirt off as he tightens his runners. 

"Then we get both ladies," Victor calls back, keeping the ball in the air with one foot. "Not that it'll matter; they'd kick Winchester's ass on their own."

Dean rolls his eyes, but he doesn't even have it in him to be offended. He just throws up his middle finger in the soldier's direction, all with a grin on his face. 

The cameras keep close, catching every move, but Dean hardly notices as his team forms a huddle, wrapping arms around shoulders as they lean into each other. Looks like his team consists of Benny, Caesar, Jesse, Ash, Dorothy, and a few others he's never met before.

"Here's what we're going to do," Jesse says, meeting every set of eyes in the circle one by one. All chatter falls to a hush, and Dean can't help but feel like this is a serious moment. "Dean, take off your shirt."

"What?" He straightens up, looking at the other man like he's grown another head. There's no way he heard him right, surely—

"Take it off. You'll distract the others with that hot-bod of yours." Dean squints, trying to see even a hint of a joke in Jesse's eyes, but he looks dead-serious—straight-faced and stoic as he waits for Dean to do it.

"And I'm guessing you want the pants off, too? Maybe run around in my birthday suit?" He scoffs, but Jesse just frowns. 

"Don't need to go that far, Winchester, but the shirt definitely needs to go."

"Come on, Jess, leave the kid alone," Caesar cuts in, shoving his husband's arm with an exasperated sigh. "I'd like to say he's joking, but he's not. Don't worry about the shirt."

Dean thinks about it for a minute, feeling the challenge in Jesse's stare even without looking at him, and he burns with the need to follow through. God, what is this place doing to him?

He strips out of his shirt, undoing the buttons one by one before letting it fall off his shoulders. He catches it before it hits the soft, muddy grass, and folds it into a neat little bundle before handing it off to one of the camera crew.

"Will that be all?" He raises a challenging eyebrow at Jesse, who looks a little speechless and a whole lot impressed as his husband throws his head back on a laugh.

"That'll do, Winchester," he murmurs, looking him up and down, his throat bobbing when he swallows. "That'll do."

"Alright, that's enough," Caesar says, a grin on his face as he pats Jesse's back. "Let's get this show on the road."

The game is so much more chaotic than Dean expects, with so many fouls he's not sure anyone's even counting them anymore. Same goes for the goals, and at one point, Dean’s pretty sure he scores on his own net. 

It's more fun than he's had in ages, though, with his feet sliding in the dirt and mud squishing between his toes. He probably should've stripped out of his pants, too, with how often he falls, laughing and panting in the grass, stained brown and green and wet with sweat, but he can’t bring himself to care. 

"Sarah!" Dean shouts, running full tilt at her as she spins around, and with his heart leaping into his throat as he stumbles, he lifts her up by the waist and spins her around as she squeals and giggles. "Jesus," Dean laughs, setting her back on her feet as he doubles over, hands on his knees as she rests a hand on his shoulder, trying to catch her breath.

"Sorry!" she gasps, her dress unravelling from its knot to fall back to her ankles, the bottom hem stained with mud. "Whoever thought… dresses were a… good idea… is _ stupid_."

Dean straightens up, catching his breath as he pushes his hair back with both hands. "And dress pants," he adds, pulling at his pant legs to show her the mud caked at the bottoms. "Dress pants are fucking stupid."

"I don't know," she says, something shining in her eyes that Dean's not quite sure what to do with. "I think you make them work."

Dean opens his mouth to respond—what he plans to say, he's not sure—but they both jump when a shrill, feminine voice reaches them from across the field. Dean whips around, eyes wide and heart racing, but it sinks when he sees her majesty, the queen, losing her shit on Victor.

The words don't travel as far as him, but the ear-piercing, angry tone does, and the look on her face, and on Victor's, is unmistakable. She's pissed as hell, and Victor looks like he's about to either throw up or bite her head off.

He does neither, though, and gives her a curt nod, standing ramrod straight with his eyes forward and shoulders back like the soldier he is.

It's unnerving, seeing the queen lose it like this, especially since her reputation precedes her as being calm, collected, and classy—never one to lose her temper. At least, not in public. What she does behind closed doors, Dean has no way of knowing.

In the next few minutes, the queen marches back inside with her guards trailing behind, the ball disappears, and with it, the easy, laidback atmosphere. 

The soldiers head back to the barracks—the guards, to their posts—and Dean collects his clothes before heading inside, Benny following close behind.

After a shower and a change of clothes, Dean decides he'd much rather sit in his garden than wander the palace today. He's strung tight enough without the possibility of running into the queen to wind him tighter, so he tips his face to the sun as he steps through the double glass doors, his bare toes curling in the grass.

It smells like warming soil and decaying earth out here, and even if it's not nearly as cold as it's been, Dean still feels the heaviness of summer passing away. There's a melancholy weight in the air, pulling him down in deep sighs and quiet moments of mourning for the loss of warm nights and fireflies.

He wanders to his bench, sitting down with a distracted huff and feeling the chill of the iron bars against his back. Dinner is still hours away, and he supposes he could fill the time by working on his presentation, but honestly? He misses Castiel.

It's like a persistent, gnawing ache in his heart, reminding him over and over and over that something's missing. Something important and cherished and—

"Dean!" 

He jumps, his head snapping up as he looks to the door. A grin spreads his cheeks when he sees both Hannah and Charlie standing there, looking pale and exhausted, though far better than they did this morning.

Dean springs to his feet, offering up the bench, which they share with grateful smiles, as he lowers himself onto the edge of the fountain.

"How are you feeling?" He looks between the two of them, noting how laboured Charlie's breathing is from the short walk, and how sweat beads on Hannah's brow, despite the cool breeze flowing through the garden.

"Fucking terrible," Charlie grumbles, slumping back on the bench and closing her eyes. "Do yourself a favour and never get poisoned, huh? You'll thank me after."

Dean huffs a laugh, rolling his eyes as Hannah gives Charlie a look, but doesn't argue. 

"This morning was far worse once they administered the antidote and I regained consciousness, but I'm slowly feeling better, and I would assume Charlie is the same." Hannah offers Dean a gracious smile and folds her hands in her lap, ever the princess.

"Speak for yourself. I had more of those damn pancakes than you." Charlie narrows her eyes on Hannah, then Dean, but there's no real heat in her gaze.

"And whose fault is that?" Hannah arches an eyebrow.

"Shut up."

"That's what I thought," Hannah says, then waves a hand like she's batting aside a pesky fly. "Enough about us, though. Who do you think will be chosen tonight?"

Honestly, Dean’s been trying not to think about it.

Instead of answering, he shrugs, lifting one shoulder as he looks into the swirling, glowing water beside him where the koi fish swim. He's sure they'll need to be removed soon, but for now, they seem content in their pool.

"I bet it'll be April or someone like that. She's gotten so damn… preppy." Charlie's face screws up like she smells something bad, and Dean can't help but laugh.

"Who knows? Maybe it'll be _ you_." Dean arches an eyebrow at his fiery friend, who rolls her eyes so hard Dean wouldn't be surprised if she strains them.

"Puh-lease, if it's not you again, I'll be shocked as shit." 

Hannah stays quiet, fiddling with her hands and picking at her fingernails in the most uncharacteristic show of discomfort. She looks a little pale, but with her downcast eyes and tucked chin, it's hard to tell, though Dean can see the crease between her eyebrows clear as day.

Before he can ask if she's feeling alright, she speaks. "Do you think… Why do you think we were poisoned, Dean?" She looks him straight in the eyes, then, and he can feel the weight of her question like a load on his shoulders. It baffles him, honestly; how should he know why they were targetted?

"I—I don't know. Why do _ you _think?"

"I think someone is trying to send a message," she says, and her tone is so strong and sure as she looks at him, that he can hardly disagree with her. Not that he does, anyway—of course someone is sending a message, just maybe not exactly as they planned.

The thought enters his mind once again, forcing its way in and plaguing all his preconceived notions of safety within the palace. What if he's the real target? What if Hannah and Charlie were just in the wrong place? Just _ happened _to eat his food?

The guilt weighs heavy on his heart, though there's nothing he could've done short of going home, and anyway, how would he know? 

Charlie tosses her head back on a grunt, sliding down the bench until she's slumped in her seat. "I'm sick of the Debbie-downer shit. Tell me something else," she demands, her eyes locking on Dean's, who's more than ready for a change in conversation.

He latches onto the opportunity, and a grin spreads across his face as the idea that's been turning in his mind since last Saturday comes to the forefront.

"We should plan a birthday party for Cas," he blurts, sitting on the edge of his seat as Hannah frowns and Charlie scowls. "A surprise party. You know, since he's never had one."

"Castiel has had lots of—" Hannah cuts herself off, her frown deepening as she thinks it through. "No, I suppose you're right…"

With ideas springing up from nowhere, Dean holds on tight to this new, exciting task, and it feels good—better than anything has in a long time.

He tries to tell himself it's because he likes to stay busy, but the truth of it is he just likes thinking of his prince.

Hannah and Charlie left hours ago, and Dean's shaking.

Sure, it has nothing to do with them, but as soon as they left to work on their tasks, he started in on his own.

And he can't do it. He can't fucking do it.

Who the hell decided public speaking isn't a form of torture? Because they're dead wrong, and Dean's been stuttering and stammering—tripping over his words and dropping his cards—during _ practice _ for the last few hours. How is he supposed to do it come tomorrow night with _ people _around? With Castiel and his parents and so many high-standing civilians glaring down at him from high up in the gallery?

He could faint just thinking about it.

"Hey, Dean-o?"

Dean looks up, finding Benny with his head stuck through the open door.

"Dinner time, brother," he says, raising an eyebrow at Dean's hair, which he's sure is an all-out mess.

“What?” Dean shakes his head, trying to make sense of Benny’s words, but it’s no use. He’s too damn flustered to think of anything but this fucking _ presentation_.

Benny doesn’t bother repeating himself, grabbing Dean’s cards and tossing them aside, instead, before leading him out of the room. 

“You’re going to be a wreck, aren’t you?”

Dean huffs as annoyance bubbles up in his gut and he glares at the back of Benny’s head. “What was your first clue?”

He at least has enough sense not to answer that, but Dean can practically feel Benny’s humour from where he walks a few paces ahead. 

Fuck him.

His anxiety is still through the roof by the time dinner wraps up and they’re waiting for the broadcast to start, but now, it’s for a whole new reason.

Castiel is sitting on the other side of the room, absorbed in conversation with Sarah. That wouldn’t be so bad except for the fact that he didn’t even bother to look Dean’s way when he walked in.

No hello. No smile or wave. Nothing.

That, coupled with the Fan-Favourites broadcast, and Dean is a wreck. He can’t choke down more than a single mouthful of cherry pie, and even then, it sticks to the roof of his mouth like half-dried glue. 

He passes the rest of it off to Hannah, who has been eyeing it since he sat down, and she takes it with a gleeful smile and a renewed appetite.

Charlie sits slumped on his other side, half asleep with her head on his shoulder, but he doesn’t mind; he’s just happy to have both his friends here safe and sound.

“How’re you feeling?” Dean murmurs in Charlie’s ear, turning his head just enough for her to hear him.

“Tired as fuck, thanks.”

Dean laughs, swatting her knee with the back of his hand, but it eases some of the tension in his heart.

Then the broadcast starts and Dean holds his breath.

“And Amarellino’s favourite for the third week in a row is… Dean Winchester!”

Oh no. Oh no, no, no.

“What did I say, pretty boy?” Charlie nudges him with her elbow as Hannah squeezes his hand, but all Dean can do is sit in silent dread.

The interview. All… by… himself.

Fuck.

He doesn’t get the chance to panic, though, before he’s being bombarded by questions, answering them more or less hysterically without really registering the words falling from his lips.

“Shocked,” he answers when the reporter asks how he’s feeling, a tape recorder held up to his mouth as he leans away. “And—” _ Terrified_, he wants to say, but the reporter talks over him, cutting him off with another question.

“It’s pretty special, don’t you think? Having the whole kingdom rooting for you?”

“I wouldn’t say the _ whole _kingdom,” Dean counters, the fact of his attempted poisoning coming to mind.

“Oh, so modest!” The man smiles, flashing pearly white teeth as he glances down at a smudged note on his palm.

Not really, but he lets that slide.

"How are you preparing for the interview? I guess it’ll be different now, considering you're the only one attending with his highness?" The reporter leans in, eyes wide and lips pursed as his cheeks hollow out.

"I—yeah, it'll be... it'll be different, but—" He shakes his head, trying to clear it of the buzzing, but he can feel eyes on him from every direction, staring him down as he grasps at straws. 

He's never felt so unprepared in his life, and even this interview does nothing to boost his confidence for tomorrow. How the hell is he supposed to get through a whole presentation, with questions and criticism, if he can't even function through a three-minute interview?

Dean looks to his left, past Charlie, where she's now sitting in the chair beside him, and searches for Castiel. When he finds him, he's not looking at Dean, and something about his complete lack of silent support breaks Dean's confidence completely.

He stumbles to his feet, feeling his dinner rolling in his stomach, and hurries for the door before the reporter can do much more than stumble out of his way.

Dean pushes into the hallway as quietly as possible, but how does one go unnoticed when almost everyone in the room was already looking?

He needs air, and quiet, and _ space _ but it doesn't seem like he'll be getting any of that judging by the sound of the door opening and closing behind him as he stalks down the hall.

It's just too much all at once, and with everything that's going on with Charlie and Hannah, Dean can't take any more stress. He doesn’t need to worry about Castiel being weird on top of all that, and yet, here he is, more annoyed than he has any right to be, but _ come on_! It's like night and day, and Dean can't deal with it right now.

"What the hell was that, Winchester?" Fucking _ Benny_. Of course, it's Benny—who else would it be?

"Piss off," Dean grumbled, not bothering to slow down as he rounds a corner. 

"Is that how it's gonna be? You're acting like a spoiled brat!" Benny's shouted words stop Dean in his tracks as righteous anger surged up inside him and he spins around to face him.

"Why?" he yells, barely noticing the maid, who jumps so far back she drops her feather duster. "Because I'm overwhelmed? Because I don't want a camera shoved in my face every other minute? Is that what makes me a brat? The fact that I've never had to do _ any _ of this before and it's fucking _ terrifying_?" 

The words tremble out of him as his heart hammers against his ribcage—he clenches his fists as his vision starts to blur and, God, is it hot in here… why is it so fucking how? He can feel himself losing his temper bit by bit, and he needs to get a hold of it again before he says something he'll regret. All the while, Benny just stands there, waiting for him to get it all out.

"And you know what? No one gives a fuck about how I'm handling things. I don't know what I'm doing, and no one wants to fucking _ teach _ me!" People move in Dean's periphery, but he doesn't so much as glance their way as he steps closer to Benny. "And if that means I act like a brat on occasion, then so be it, because I don't know what else to do and I'm _ tired_."

His voice cracks on the final word, but he doesn't let the burning in his eyes turn into anything more than a glassy sheen. He won't cry. He _ won't_. 

So, he clears his throat, grits his teeth, and looks at the floor for half a second before spinning on his heel and marching the rest of the way to his room.

The door swings open almost as soon as it latches behind him, and Dean heaves a deep sigh, closing his eyes and speaking before Benny can chew him out again.

"You could knock, you know?" He rubs both hands down his face, feeling bone-deep exhaustion pulling on every limb, weighing him down until he could collapse from the strain. "I'm tired, Benny."

"I heard."

Dean jumps, whipping around to see not Benny, but _ Castiel _standing in his doorway, looking as impassive and unreadable as ever. 

Dean doesn't speak—doesn't think he can even if he wanted to—watching Castiel watch him with those too-blue eyes and his heart in his throat. Did Castiel really hear his entire outburst? And, shit, isn't that fucking embarrassing. Dean can feel the heat rising in his cheeks the longer he stands there, but what else is he supposed to do?

Castiel shifts, looking down at Dean's hands as his mouth opens and closes. God, he looks awkward, and it almost makes Dean smile, but what if it's _ him _ making Castiel uncomfortable? And now that's _ all _he can think about.

"Why are you ignoring me?" The words tumble out before he can think them through, and he can't even say he regrets them once they're out in the open. Sure, it's like tearing his ribs open and giving Castiel a look into the deepest parts of his insecurities, but he's tired of hiding.

Again, Castiel stumbles over his words, but he doesn't look confused like Dean thought he would—like he hadn't even noticed he was doing it—and Dean's beyond thankful for that.

"Can we sit?" Castiel whispers, finally meeting Dean's gaze with a pleading look in his eyes, and when all Dean does is nod before dropping onto the edge of his bed, Castiel lowers himself down beside him.

Dean fiddles with his fingers as he waits, his suit pinching in all the wrong places, but he's too damn stubborn to adjust. He can feel Castiel’s body heat radiating from him, and with it, his over-priced cologne. There’s no hint of that honey-sunshine scent that Dean loves so much, and it floods him with more sadness than it should. 

After a moment, Castiel sucks in a deep, shuddering breath and reaches out a hand to twine his fingers with Dean's, stealing the air from his lungs when their skin touches. “The other night, my father called for me," Castiel says, squeezing Dean's fingers to catch his attention, and Dean looks up from where his hand is tingling with little shivers of awareness, meeting his eyes.

"I remember." Castiel had been tickling him—they'd been pressed together from nose to toes, laughing like they didn’t have a care in the world—when his guards barged in.

Castiel nods, his face solemn as he continues, and for some reason, it has Dean's heart sinking to his shoes. "He wanted to speak with me about my inappropriate behaviour with the suitors—with you, in particular—and suggested that I pay more attention to the others so as to make this fair."

His words hang heavy in the air between them, filled to the brim with implications Dean’s nowhere near ready to unpack. A lump rises in his throat and he's not sure if it's anger or sadness that brings it on, but either way, it chokes him up and cuts off anything he might have said.

"But you are upset, and I don't see the point in trying to get to know any of you if I can't offer to listen when you need someone." Castiel pulls him in closer when Dean's eyes start to water, and he goes willingly, leaning into Castiel's side and resting his head in the crook of his neck. "You can cry if you want."

"I don't want to cry," Dean whispers, but his voice is so cracked and broken he's sure it's hardly understandable. He fights the tears, though, because he's tired of crying. He wants to _ talk _to his prince, not sob all over him. So, he clears his throat and breathes in Castiel's honey-sunshine scent that’s detectable now, with him so close, and finds his calm.

"Alright," Castiel says, soft and accepting as he plays with Dean's fingers. "Tell me your fears."

So Dean does.

He spills his guts about his fear of public speaking and how he now has to do it not once, but twice, by himself. He talks about how he's not sure who his friends are in this place and even discloses his fears about being the actual target of the poisoning, which has Castiel's eyebrows shooting up.

Dean tells him about missing his family like it's a constant, nagging ache in his chest, and how he feels like a fish on the moon in this place, and that he just wants to know how it will all end so he can _ deal _with it. However it'll be.

And all the while, Castiel listens, waiting for Dean to finish before offering his thoughts, but he never lets go of Dean's hand.

"You know, Dean, you won't be alone for the interview." Dean lifts his head to look at Castiel's cute little smile. "I will be there."

"Yeah, for the second one," Dean grumbles, bumping Castiel's shoulder with his own as his bottom lip juts out in a pout.

"No, I will be at the first as well." With a tiny scowl, Castiel gives Dean's sleeve a tug as he leans in a fraction of an inch. "Just speak to me as if I am the only one there. Just look at me, and you will do fine."

"Thank you," Dean whispers, so grateful for this man that he doesn't know how he'll possibly ever live without him.

"You could run through it now if you would like?" Castiel starts to lean away from Dean, who scowls at him like he's lost his mind. What's he doing—

"No!" Dean squawks, lunging for the note cards tossed aside on his bed before Castiel can get ahold of them. "Cas! No!" He laughs, scrambling for the cards and ending up on top of Castiel, who is laid out on his stomach, grasping in vain. 

"Why not, Dean? Why can't I see it?" Castiel's laughter fills the room, lifting the weight from Dean's heart as he snatches up the cards and rolls away, holding them to his chest as he giggles.

"You'll hear it tomorrow!" Somehow, Dean ends up on his side, curled into himself with Castiel wrapped around him, laughing like a child. The heat of his chest pressed up against Dean’s back has his breath catching and his heart racing, but it feels so good—so _ right_—to be like this with his prince, that he never wants it to end. 

After a while, they settle down, both panting for breath but not bothering to move away. Castiel doesn’t reach for the cards anymore, so Dean tucks them under the bed beside the laptop with a contented sigh and sinks into the comfort of Castiel’s gentle fingers as they stroke along his wrist. 

"This is what your father was talking about, isn't it?" Dean whispers, feeling his heart hammer against his ribcage as Castiel lets his weight settle at Dean's back. Butterflies flutter like mad in his stomach, turning him into a love-sick fool, but this moment almost feels doomed.

They’re destined to be parted; this night has an inevitable end. There’s a tragedy in here somewhere, Dean knows, he just hasn’t found it yet.

"Yeah," Castiel sighs like he's a lost cause. Like he doesn't really want to be saved.


	33. WEEK FIVE - Thursday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello hello!
> 
> It's been forever, I know, but this chapter felt like writing a mini paper and I'm notoriously bad for procrastinating. It's here now, though, so I hope you'll all forgive me! Also, the statistics Dean presents mean nothing, and are just numbers I made up, so don't look for any accuracy in them, because you won't find any.
> 
> Thank you, as always, to my lovely beta-reader, Sparrowtail, for reading this before even I do, and chatching all my Canadian spellings.
> 
> Anyway, let me know what you think in the comments!

"Am I sweating through my shirt? I am, aren't I? Come on, Suse, just tell me." Dean holds his arms out to his sides, feeling the trickle of perspiration at the small of his back, cold and slithering like melting ice.

"Boy, do you think I'd be this calm if you were sweating through your shirt? Calm yourself," Susie huffs, swatting his hands away when he tries to pull his button-down away from his skin.

He can hear the chatter of the crowd through the double doors, and even having the other suitors in the sitting room with him doesn't help. None of them look even the slightest bit fazed by the whole thing, and Dean doesn't know if that's reassuring or not.

Charlie is across the room, as far from Dean as she can get because, apparently, he's "too damn distracting and she needs to get her shit together." She's pacing back and forth, not nervous, exactly, but so focused on the cards in her hands, Dean wouldn't be surprised if she walked straight into a post.

"Okay," he breathes, trying his best to focus on anything besides the ticking grandfather clock on the far wall. And who the hell gets a clock that big, anyway? It takes up half the wall and stretches up to the top of the twenty-foot ceilings. Sure, it's antique and beautiful like everything else in this place, but the pillars and the rounded ceilings feel like enough of a cell; he doesn't need to be reminded of how close he is to being in the proverbial lion's den by a giant ticking clock, too.

"You have your slides and cards," Susie is saying, setting them to the side for Dean, who is far more grateful for her than he'll ever be able to express. "And your slide remote is here; remember, just press this button here. Don't touch anything else."

"Got it," Dean says with a sharp nod, but his eyes still scan the room. He knows that, through those doors, the camera crews are setting up, but even in here, it's chaotic. Stylists buzz around like bees in a hive, fixing hair and make-up, touching up outfits, and making sure microphones are hooked up properly.

Dean hasn't seen Castiel all day, but he tries to remember his words from the night before. He'll speak to him; tell his prince about his idea and hope to God Castiel's poker face stays as solid as ever.

The thought calms his rattled nerves for a moment, and he starts to think maybe he won't pass out in the first thirty seconds. Maybe he won't stumble over his words so badly that everyone looks at him with disdain, or worse—_pity_.

Dean jumps when the set of doors that lead back out into the hallway burst open with a bang, as do a few others, and when he looks up, it's to find a man he's not quite sure he recognizes. Dean squints, looking closer, and he knows he _ should _know him, but he can't quite...

"So this is the ragtag bunch dear ol' Cassie put together?" His blue eyes scan the lot of them, all silent now as an air of confusion settles over them. "What? No hello for the nephew of the queen?" 

"Lucifer," Susie whispers in Dean's ear, and it all clicks into place. The queen's nephew, being her sister, Hester's, son. "Here for a visit."

Dean scowls at the man, not sure what to expect, really, but his first impression isn't off to a great start and, judging by the way he sneers at the gawking faces, neither is theirs. 

"Good God, this is a drag." Lucifer saunters into the room, cutting across people's paths and picking things up from stylist's bags before tossing them back without a care. He has an air of presumption about him like, because his aunt married into royalty, he automatically gets a free pass at anything. "How 'bout you, sweetheart? Are you as boring as the rest?"

Kelly giggles when Lucifer flicks her nose, though Dean's not sure whether it's because of nerves, or something else. She blushes hot and doesn't stop smiling even when he moves away, so Dean's betting on that _ something else_.

"Bet you and I would have some fun, huh?" 

Then he turns to Dean and stops, letting his eyes roam over him from head to toe as he lets out a low whistle. Shivers crawl up Dean's spine like tiny spiders, and a knot turns his stomach. Even just the thought of Lucifer's eyes on him makes him feel unclean, and his lip curls in disgust before he can hold it back.

"Damn, I can see why Castiel chose _ you_," Lucifer drawls, crude and rude and everything Dean hates about the rich. Lucifer steps forward, reaching out to touch who knows where, before Dean slaps his hand away with a snarl. 

"Don't touch me," he says, low and threatening, and Lucifer's eyebrows shoot up as the humor dies from his face, replaced with cold, hard anger.

"I'll do whatever the fuck I want—"

"You heard the man," Benny says, stepping between the two of them with a face like thunder, and even Lucifer isn't stupid enough to argue with a palace guard. "Step back."

"Pretty face," Lucifer says as he steps back, never looking away from Dean's eyes as he does. "But that attitude's going to get you into trouble. Mark my words." He shoots Dean a wink before spinning on his heels and heading for the door he came through, shoving aside anyone that gets in his way.

Dean's knee jigs as nervous energy sings through him, his hands clasped in his lap as he looks around. The amphitheater is packed; stuffed to bursting with so many upper-class people, Dean can hardly breathe through the stench of money permeating the air. 

He'd be lying if he said he's not a little bit excited, though.

The more he thinks about his idea, the more his confidence grows. He's worked hard on it, and he's not about to downplay that now.

"Thank you for joining us tonight," Duma says into a mic, standing in front of a podium with an ease that Dean envies. "In the next few hours, we will hear from the remaining seven suitors as they present their ideas on how to improve our great nation." There's scattered applause as Dean's eyes roam the packed seats, taking in the dazzling lights and sweeping decorations. "These reforms, if approved by the Crown, will not only be a pastime for the chosen suitor, but their mission to accomplish should the Crown Prince take them as his spouse."

Dean looks to Castiel then, sitting in his throne, adjacent to the suitors where they sit along the wall by the double doors they entered through. He's not looking at him, but there's a hint of a smile touching his lips that suggests he wants to.

"Before we begin," Duma continues, "the King, Queen, and Crown Prince will offer a few words to the suitors. Your Majesty, would you like to start?" Duma looks to the King, who sits slumped in his throne. 

He's not much taller than his wife, and maybe two thirds as wide; there's a mousy quality to him, amplified by his nervous, twitching movements and soft-spoken manner. 

It would almost be funny if it weren't so terrifying, because Dean knows there's nothing complacent about that man. He's ruthless, Benny would say, as any Novak before him, and his bad side is vicious and unmerciful.

But for now, he sits up in his chair, straightens his crown, and looks to the seven of them with a shaky smile. "We have yet to meet, I know," he says, letting off a chuckle that falls flat. He clears his throat. "But I hope you will take my joy in meeting you all as genuinely as I mean it."

Not too promising, considering he looks like he'd rather be anywhere else.

"I want you to know that we are taking your suggestions seriously and that this, as Duma said, is not just a way to pass the time." He opens his mouth, then closes it again, looking like he has more that he wants to say, but thinks better of it before nodding at his wife to say her piece.

Naomi Novak, born Naomi Milton, is one of the few people in the kingdom that Dean would describe as unreadable—her eldest son being another—and, even now, she keeps her expression schooled as she looks them over. 

"The royal family prides ourselves on our fairness, equality, and generosity. Your reforms should exemplify these qualities, as should you all. Here, in this place and on this stage, you are representing this great nation; you would all do best to remember that." She smiles, but it lacks a certain sweetness that's always there in Castiel's smile. "Good luck to you all, and may your works guide us into a better tomorrow."

A trickle of unease seeps into Dean's bones with the hush of the auditorium. It's unnerving, how she can silence a room with a few simple words. Will Dean be able to do that if he marries Castiel? Will he hold their attention and respect the way she does?

"Good evening," Castiel says, his warm voice filling Dean's ears like honey, and it has a smile twitching at the corners of his lips as his eyes turn to his prince. "It has been such a pleasure getting to know you all, and I look forward to the weeks to come." His eyes meet every one of them in turn before landing on Dean's. A flash of a smile as his gaze holds for a second too long. "You have brilliant minds and captivating ideas that I can't wait to hear. I know you will all do spectacular things, even when all but one go home." Castiel meets Dean's eyes again, and his heart skips a beat. "I will turn it over to you now, as I believe we have all waited long enough."

Dean's heart flip-flops in his chest, his stomach twisting itself in knots. Why did he volunteer to go first? Why, why, _ why_?

But he did, so he stands on shaky legs when Duma nods for him to begin, and wobbles his way to the podium set up for his presentation. The projector screen drops from the ceiling behind the three royals, so they move to the side of the stage to sit with the rest of their children and the visiting cousins.

"Okay," Dean whispers, his voice shaking for everyone to hear as his microphone turns on, projecting his voice to all corners of the space. He flushes hot, color crawling over his collar as he busies himself with his memory stick and digs out the remote control, along with his note cards.

With trembling hands, he pulls up his presentation, taking a deep, less-than-steadying breath as he looks to the royal family. They stare back, straight-faced and expectant, and Dean almost loses his nerve—and his dinner—before Castiel’s eyes soften, a small smile, just barely noticeable as he nods for Dean to go on.

He can do this. He _ will _do this.

Almost without conscious thought to do so, Dean starts speaking, hitting the button on his little remote so that his slides light up the screen.

“Good evening,” he starts, smiling up at the crowd. He wipes a hand over his mouth—a nervous habit he’s never been able to break—before continuing. “My name is Dean Winchester, and I'm going to be presenting my proposal for a reform to the healthcare system.”

Quiet murmurs move through the amphitheater like a burbling wave, sweeping across him and sending a shiver down his spine.

When he looks, he can see surprise in the lift of Castiel’s eyebrows and the widening of his eyes, but there’s curiosity there, too, hiding in the tilt of his head and the way he sits up in his chair.

“As of right now,” Dean continues, talking over the chatter. “Our healthcare system is run through private insurance, which is useful,” Dean says, staring right at Castiel like he's a lifeline in a tubulant sea. “If you can afford it.”

Castiel doesn’t twitch—not a single hint to what's going on inside his head—and somehow, that’s worse than knowing, so Dean looks away, up to his slides as he presses the button for the next one.

“As of the most recent statistics, only twelve percent of the population can afford private health insurance without worry. Twenty-two percent get it through their jobs, and the remaining sixty-six percent are forced to pay out-of-pocket for their healthcare.” Dean can feel himself picking up steam, the passion he feels for this issue propelling him full-force. 

“As a result of the lack of coverage, seventy-eight percent of that sixty-six live with healthcare debt.” The hall is silent now, all eyes turned on him, and sure, it makes his heart race and palms sweat, but he has a _ voice _here. People are listening to him. “From simple, everyday things, too, like childbirth. Thousands and thousands of dollars owed because they had a baby.”

Dean shakes his head, turning back to the royal family to find straight-faces, scowls, and hard, cold eyes. He doesn’t care—this is an issue, and if they aren’t willing to take care of their people, well…

“Eighty-two percent of homelessness is caused by healthcare debt, costing the kingdom billions each year in shelters, soup kitchens, and aid. On top of that, thirty-nine percent of illnesses result in death because of a lack of treatment. These are _ treatable _illnesses, like the annual flu.” He’s pacing now, spreading his voice as he waves his arms, and he finds Castiel’s eyes once more, letting his vigor pour into his words. “Eighty-eight percent of illness-related deaths are in the lower-class because there isn’t enough support.”

The words hang in the air as he stares Castiel down, pleading with him to understand. He’s not sure he does, though, and it breaks Dean’s heart a little as he turns back to the crowd. He lets his words hang in the air for a few moments more, hoping they sink in the way he wants them to.

“Now, I’ve talked a lot about the problem, I know, but there’s a solution to all this that has far-reaching benefits for everyone.” Dean smiles, and he’s not sure why, but it feels right. “Universal healthcare,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

A few more murmurs, and some shifting glances at the royals, who are at Dean’s back. He can feel the energy in the room, and it draws him to the front of the stage—to the people.

“A tax-funded healthcare program that guarantees healthcare for all citizens, no matter their ability to work, their income, or the severity of their illness or injury. A tax increase of as little as four percent could fund it, making it the most affordable healthcare system in the world, that would be available to all its citizens.

“On top of that, with everyone having access to healthcare, the workable population will increase, which will put more money back into the system. It’s cyclical, you see,” Dean says, doing a circular motion with his hands as excitement lights up his eyes. “With universal healthcare, we lower the risk of pandemic-level viral spread due to a decreased level of homelessness, which will ultimately save the kingdom both in crisis funds and homelessness efforts.”

Dean spins back around, eyes locking on Castiel’s, and as Dean says the words, “It pays for itself,” Castiel mouths them right back. “The outcome of a universal healthcare system is a strong, healthy kingdom, with a working lower, middle, and upper class, and a dwindling homelessness crisis that I believe can, and _ will_, be a benefit to us all.”

Dean hits the button on his remote one more time, grinning with his back turned to the screen as he folds his hands in front of him, pleased as punch. He knows he’s at the end, which is stated pretty clearly on the slide that reads _ thank you_. 

“Any questions?” Dean turns to face the council, and the family of royals, waiting with a pleased little smile and a feeling of satisfaction in his gut. He did good, he knows, and so what if he’s proud of himself? He’s allowed to be.

An old, withering man with large, round glasses and patchy stubble raises his hand. “Yeah, I have one.”

Dean nods for him to continue as a knot twists his stomach. 

“This plan of yours doesn’t leave any room for the private insurers. How will those companies proceed without a market in healthcare?”

Dean smiles, already having an answer ready. “Ah, yes, of course. Private insurance can be shifted to cover elective surgeries, or the more experimental types, offering a large market for the kinds of medical attention that have required going out of the country for, in the past.”

Short, succinct, to the point, and Dean is more than a little pleased with himself when the man nods, looking satisfied with Dean’s answer.

The questions come and go, answered swiftly and precisely, leaving the members of the council looking thoughtful. Dean turns to the royal family with a wide smile.

“Any further questions?”

“I have several, yes,” the queen says, her tone clipped and biting, and the amphitheater falls silent. “First, I would like to comment on the extraordinary ignorance of this… plan, highlighting how very exclusionary it is to benefitting the lower classes.”

Dean's smile falls from his face.

“How can you possibly expect the highest-earning citizens to fund the majority of the kingdom’s healthcare? How is that in any way just?”

“Well, you see, your majesty, there doesn’t need to be an increase in taxes, either—that was just a suggestion—” Dean starts, only to be cut off without so much as a wave of her hand.

“Beyond that, even your suggestion for allocated insurance would drop their profits by at _ least _seventy-percent, putting thousands out of work.” One sharp eyebrow curves as her scowl deepens, but when Dean looks over at Castiel, he finds him staring at his mother in disbelief.

“This plan of yours is inconsistent, reckless, and incredibly one-sided, and to top it off, it would put so much strain on the upper-classes, that it could send the whole economy crashing down.” 

All Dean can do is stand there and take it as she goes on and on, picking him apart like a vulture. The air in his lungs solidifies as every set of eyes in the space turn on him. Even the suitors, who try not to look like they’re looking, but do anyway. Anger bubbles up in his stomach, mixing with the deep, shameful humiliation. He’s going to be sick.

“That’s all the time we have—” Duma says, looking between Dean and the queen as she tries to stop this train-wreck in its tracks, but she’s cut off, too.

“It’s morally wrong, financially impossible, and so _ selfish_—”

“Your majesty, that’s all the time—”

“—I’m shocked you had the nerve to stand there and suggest it—”

“Ma’am, we’re done—”

The murmurs of the crowd pull and shift, growing louder as the queen’s voice rises with it until she’s practically shouting at Dean from her throne.

“How do you expect anyone to agree to such a disaster of a _ plan _ formed by someone like _ you_—”

“_ Enough_!” Castiel’s voice fills the amphitheater, booming and furious, and Dean would be lying if he said he didn’t stumble back a little from the intensity of it. “That’s _enough_, Mother.” With cold fury dripping from his every word, Castiel turns back to face Dean as the queen’s mouth snaps shut. “Thank you, Mr. Winchester.”

Dean pulls his memory stick from the laptop with shaking hands, his knees weak as humiliation still pumps through him. He retakes his seat and tries to calm his roiling stomach as Kelly rises to take up the podium, and the night carries on.

To Dean’s relief, most of the ideas are so-so, if not just _ bad_, and Michael’s is, quite honestly, terrifying. His proposal for what essentially amounts to slavery of the imprisoned shocking everyone in the amphitheater into silence and forcing Duma to cut him off halfway through.

Dean hardly hears the closing remarks, his mind whirling with everything the queen said to him, but his thoughts keep getting stuck on one thing. 

_ Someone like you_. 

Someone of his status? That’s got to be what she meant because what else could it be? Yeah, he’s going to offer a proposal to better the lives of the people he knows best—why wouldn’t he? They’re the ones who need it the most.

Even April, who proposed more soup kitchens, is so out of touch with what his people need, she wouldn’t know it if it smacked her upside the head. 

But her’s sounded good. _ Her's _wasn’t too radical of a change. He knows it isn’t going to work.

Dean thinks about it the whole way back to his room, trailing behind Benny around corners and down darkened hallways. He doesn’t even have the presence of mind to be glad that the suitors aren’t being forced into social hour. It’s late, after all—well past midnight and into the early hours of Friday morning. 

Dean’s exhausted, and now that the adrenaline rush of the night is seeping from his system, he’s more than ready to fall face-first into his pillows and sleep the rest of the night away.

That, of course, isn’t how it goes.

Dean gets to his room, closing the door behind him with a sigh and, almost immediately, there’s a knock.

His shoulders sag, feeling the weight of the world settle right back on them as he shoots a longing glance at his bed—the freshly washed bedding, made up and folded down for him to crawl right in—before spinning away and pulling the door open a crack.

“Oh,” Dean says, stepping back and holding the door wider when he finds Castiel on the other side with an awkward smile and an adorable head tilt. His crown sits crooked on the top of his head, leaning hard to the left, but he doesn’t seem to notice. That, or he just doesn’t care.

“Hello, Dean.” The deep, gravelly rumble of Castiel’s voice sends shivers down Dean’s spine, settling low and hot in his stomach as a flush works its way up the back of his neck. “May I come in?”

Dean stumbles back, tripping over his own feet in his hurry to let Castiel in. He’s not sure why, but there’s an undercurrent of nerves hanging between them, thick in the words unsaid.

They stand there in the relative darkness for longer than Dean knows what to do with, and for some reason, Castiel doesn’t do anything to break the moment or widen the space between them. The seconds stretch on until Castiel blinks, seeming to come back to himself with an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

“I wanted to apologize for my mother’s behavior.” Oh. That’s why he’s here. It makes sense, sure, but that doesn’t stop the trickle of disappointment that seeps into Dean’s veins. “She was well out of line, and if my father had more of a backbone, he would have stopped her sooner.”

“I see,” Dean murmurs, more than a little startled by the mention of the king, but it makes sense; Dean’s never really witnessed the king doing much more than stand in silence while others speak for him.

“I don’t like pulling rank with her. She can be very sensitive to that sort of thing, but, as I’ve said, she went beyond reasonable questioning, and her comments had no business turning into insults and—”

“Cas! Cas, stop,” Dean says, cutting off the prince’s rambling with a laugh, and his mouth snaps shut. Dean’s sure that, if the room had any amount of proper light, there’d be a flush rising hot and red up Castiel’s cheeks, and he’s almost sad that it’s too dark to see it. “I’m not going to pretend I’m not pissed as hell by what she said, but I don’t blame you for it. Not even a bit.”

That seems to lift the worry off of Castiel’s shoulders as he sags with a relieved sigh. “Good,” he says, with a decisive nod that knocks his crown a bit lower. He shifts his feet as Dean lowers himself to the edge of his bed, giving in to the exhaustion that pulls him down. “Good.” 

There’s something else, though, he can tell. Castiel’s mouth hangs open, and his eyes search the room before coming back to rest on Dean’s. Something like anticipation has him gripping the mattress, waiting with bated breath for whatever his prince is working himself up to say.

When the words come, Dean’s anything but disappointed.

“Your presentation,” Castiel starts, his voice earnest and sincere as he steps forward, almost without a thought. “It was brilliant, Dean. It’s not something I’ve ever thought about, and I’m more than a little ashamed of myself for that, but the benefits of a universal healthcare system far outweigh the negatives.”

Pleasure dances its way through Dean, lighting in his heart, and sending butterflies fluttering in his stomach. A smile twitches the corners of his lips as he blinks up at his prince. “You think so?”

Castiel takes the question with a quirked brow and a half-smirk. “You don’t?” Dean shakes his head at that, feeling a little foolish because, of _ course _ he thinks so. “Sure, it could use a few tweaks, but I fully expect you to go through with this, Dean. You could help so many people.”

Even in the dark, the light in Castiel’s eyes warms Dean’s beaten and battered heart, soothing something inside him that’s been damaged for longer than he can recall. 

“I believe in you, Dean—so much. You can do it.” He says it like they have time to try—like Dean will be here long enough to see this through—and, God, does he hope that’s true. 

He hopes and he hopes and he hopes.


	34. WEEK FIVE - Friday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all!
> 
> I'm posting this now before leaving for work. First day at my new job, so let's hope it goes well and I actually enjoy it!
> 
> Some jealous Cas in this one, with oblivious Dean. Thanks again to Sparrowtail for beta-reading this, you're the best!
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments!

It’s not until after breakfast that Dean remembers the queen, herself, developed their current healthcare system, and though he still can’t stop worrying about the events of the night before, the realization comes as a relief. Dean’s sure he’d be pretty pissed off too if someone came after his work like that, but it doesn’t change the facts. 

Private insurance doesn’t work, and it needs to change. 

Instead, he worries about the coming interview. And Castiel’s birthday party, and the fact that he  _ still  _ hasn’t gotten a date, and Castiel’s narcissistic cousin, Lucifer. And… and… and…

There’s so much to worry about, but he starts with the party. It  _ is _ only a day away.

“Come on, Frank,  _ please _ ?” Dean begs, hands pressed together close to his chest as he follows the frazzled cook around the kitchen. “It’s for the prince.”

Frank, of course, continues to ignore him, mixing soups and shouting instructions across the kitchen. “I don’t have time for you, boy.”

“Susie always makes time for me,” Dean pouts, a little crestfallen as he thinks about a birthday party without a great big chocolate cake for his prince.

Frank spins on his heel, looking at Dean with a bland expression. “Do I look like Susie?”

“Well,  _ no _ —”

“Then why do you think I’ll do it?”

Dean shrugs. “Don’t know. ‘Cause she’ll have to hear about it? And then you will too?” Dean offers him a cheeky grin, wrinkling his nose as he tries not to feel bad about how manipulative that sounds, but if Frank really means  _ no _ , Dean will leave it be.

But all he does is sigh as he searches Dean’s face, and instead of looking defeated, there’s a sharp, shining excitement in his eyes, even if he tries to hide it. “Of course, I’ll do it, boy. You know I will.” 

Dean grins, pleased beyond measure as he hops, skips, and jumps out of range of Franks swatting spoon.

“You’re the best, Frank!”

Dean takes the steps two at a time, bounding to the main level with a list of everything else he needs to do running through his mind.

Next, a location. He’ll need Benny for that.

“Benny!” Dean calls, cupping his hands around his mouth and shouting into the hallway. He knows it’s overkill, but he’s not about to miss an opportunity to mess with his perpetually absent guard. “Benny Laffite! Where are you, you slippery bastard!” 

“Damnit, Winchester! Shut up!” Benny slides around the corner, flush-faced and panting. “You’re gonna get me fired.”

“Maybe if you actually did your job, I wouldn’t have to go around trying to find you.” He smirks, getting a dirty look from Benny when he straightens up from his hands-on-knees position.

“You’re a dick, brother,” Benny says, with the most dramatic eye-roll Dean’s ever seen. He huffs out a tiny laugh, though, and plants his hands on his hips. “What do you want?”

“I need a semi-private room for a birthday party,” Dean says, point-blank. No use dancing around the issue.

“What?” 

“A room. For a birthday party.” Dean raises both eyebrows, ignoring the staff member who gives him a weird look as she passes, pushing an over-loaded cart of cleaning supplies. “Tomorrow, preferably.”

Benny’s expression doesn’t change, but he does straighten up a bit more as his eyes squint to slits. “Again,  _ why _ ?”

Dean huffs. “I’m throwing Castiel a surprise birthday party tomorrow. And before you say it, I  _ know  _ his birthday was over a month ago.” 

For a moment, Benny doesn’t respond, just staring Dean down like he’s lost his damn mind, but when it clears, there’s pure, unbridled humor in his eyes. “You are somethin’ else, Winchester." He laughs, shaking his head with a smile.”But sure, I’ll find you a room.”

Dean breathes a relieved sigh, but there’s one more thing…

“Could you, uh…” he rubs his palm over the back of his neck. “Could you get him there, too? Without letting on to what’s happening?”

Benny just laughs, a deep, rumbling sound with his head thrown back and a hand on his gut. He turns away, walking back down the hall in the direction he came from. 

“Well?” Dean calls after him, his heart skipping with nerves as he watches Benny walk away. “Will you?”

“‘Course I will!” He turns the corner, once again leaving Dean alone.

“Shit,” Dean murmurs, his eyes aching and his fingers cramping. Maybe it’s time for a break. He has until tomorrow, right? He doesn’t need to get Castiel’s gift just yet.

Sure, let’s go with that.

Instead, Dean tosses his latest failed attempt aside, deciding he’d better focus on a different source of stress for now. 

With a notebook and a pen, Dean heads out into the halls, wandering around until he finds himself a little alcove to sink into, his back to the ornate wall as he slides down to his butt, his legs bent in front of him with his notebook open on his knees.

He stares down at the blank pages as his mind whirls. How is he supposed to prepare for an interview anyway? He’s never done one like this, and just the thought of getting up on stage in front of thousands of people to talk about his relationship scares the shit out of him.

People pass without paying him too much attention, busy with their own lives and tasks. He ignores them for the most part, scribbling down possible questions and how he might answer them, but after an hour or so, it feels kind of pointless. How is he supposed to prepare for something he’s never experienced before?

With a defeated sigh, Dean snaps the notebook shut and tosses it to the side. He’s still curled up in the alcove, but with the steadily rising sun, it’s much brighter than it was when he got here. 

With numb legs and an aching butt, Dean knows he’ll have to get up soon to stretch, but not yet. For now, he just people-watches, wondering how much better they’d do in an interview.

Better than him, probably. Yeah, definitely better than him.

“Hey, Dean.”

Dean looks up to find Sarah walking toward him, her long hair tied up in a neat chignon, and a long, flowing dress brushing her ankles. Dean smiles at her.

“Don’t you look nice,” Dean says in way of a greeting. He makes a show of looking her up and down as she does a twirl, laughing and posing before lowering herself beside him. 

“I’ve got a date,” she says, not even trying to hide the glow in her eyes. She looks so damn happy, and Dean tries to be excited for her, he really does, but there’s a sick knot twisting in his stomach. She’s already been on a date. Why does she get a second one before he has a first?

“That’s uh… that’s awesome.” With a tight smile, Dean folds his hands over his knees and turns back to the mostly empty hall.

The silence hangs between them, and Dean knows she knows why, but she doesn’t mention it, and he’s more than a little grateful for that.

“What’re you working on?” Sarah asks instead, nodding at the notebook tossed between them on the cold marble floor.

“Oh, this?” He picks up the book, studying the intricate, inlaid design on the leather cover instead of looking at her. “I’m trying to prepare for the interview, but having never done one before…” He trails off with a shrug, not really wanting to share all his feelings and doubts with her. Or anyone, for that matter.

“You don’t know where to start,” she finishes for him with a nod. “I get it.” 

Dean tries not to let the huffing laugh fall from his lips, but it does anyway. How the hell would she know what this is like? 

“Okay, so I don’t get it,” she laughs, high and musical like trilling bells. “But I can imagine it must be terrifying. We can trade places if you want?”

Dean looks over at her, a scowl on his face, only to find a raised eyebrow and a teasing smile. “Not a chance,” he says, a grin working its way across his lips. “Besides, wouldn’t want to lose my spot as the favorite, right? One look at you and I’d be old news.” 

“She rolls her eyes, and a warm feeling of companionship washes over Dean. Their flirting is light—teasing, even—and means nothing to either of them besides harmless banter. It’s what Dean needs, he thinks. Friendship in a way that makes him feel like he’s floating. 

“Nah, I can’t see you being old news for a long time, if ever.” She tucks a wisp of hair behind her ear, crossing her legs at the ankle as she takes the notebook from Dean’s hands. “You’re far too fascinating to forget.”

Dean doesn’t comment on that as she starts flipping through his notes, but it does get him thinking. Are the people really so interested in how different he is from the others? Do they like him only for how he’s  _ not  _ the same, or do they just like him? 

Once again, he asks himself if it really matters—who cares what they think? He’ll be their figurehead if they want him to be, but that doesn’t mean he’s about to change who he is for them. He won’t do that for anybody.

“Here, see this is where you need to change up your responses a bit,” Sarah interrupts, pointing to a line in his notebook, and Dean’s mind does a one-eighty, refocusing on the interview as Sarah explains what he  _ should  _ say.

The mini-lesson carries on for a good half hour as Dean’s back starts to ache, but he’s so damn grateful for Sarah. How would he ever manage before this?

“You are a  _ genius _ , Sarah Blake.” He pulls her in with an arm around her shoulder, smacking a wet kiss to her cheek as she giggles, swaying into his side before moving away when he lets her go. “Don’t know how I’ve managed to get this far without that brain of yours.”

“Flatterer,” she laughs, handing him back his notebook and pen with all her little notes scrawled inside. 

“It’s true!” He sets the book aside, not even really thinking about it when he brushes back a loose hair, and it’s pretty obvious that she doesn’t either, but they both jump when a throat clears in front of them.

“Miss Blake,” Castiel’s deep, rumbling voice says, cutting through the light-hearted atmosphere with a razor-sharp edge. 

“Oh, Castiel!” Flustered and dazed, Sarah pushes to her feet, looking hurried and a little guilty, though Dean can’t for the life of him figure out why. “Sorry, I lost track of time.”

“It’s alright,” he murmurs, his eyes finding Dean’s for a fraction of a second before he looks away. It has a knot twisting in Dean’s gut though, because Castiel doesn’t look happy to see him. The opposite, actually—he looks annoyed, and more than a little jealous as he turns away without so much as a greeting.

“Goodbye, Dean!” Sarah calls over her shoulder, and he lifts his hand in a shaky wave, but she’s already being hurried along, out of sight.

Dean just sits there for a moment, at a loss for what to do was he stares after them long after they’re gone. He’s not sure how he feels, honestly, but he knows it’s not good.

With the notebook forgotten in his lap, Dean sinks his hands into his hair, frustrated and beyond confused by the jealousy he saw in Castiel. He knows he should expect it—the prince  _ is  _ dating all of them, after all—but seeing the way he feels for Sarah still cuts deep, even with the harmlessness of their flirting.

Does he really think of Dean more as a threat to his relationship with her, than a lover in his own right?

Dean gives up on the interview prep, too distracted now to do anything but toss the notebook aside and head out to the grounds. He finds Charlie there, hitting a ball around in the tennis court by herself.

“Pretty sure that’s a two-player game,” Dean calls, grinning at his fiery friend when she glances up with a smile. 

“Not against you, it isn’t.”

“Fuck off.”

“Grab a racket.” Charlie nods to the spares hung up in a little cupboard by the door. “I’ll go easy on you this time.”

Dean huffs, remembering what  _ easy  _ meant the last time they played, and how he walked out of here with a swollen, black and blue eye. “Sure you will,” he mutters but strips out of his suit jacket anyway as he makes his way to the door. “Just know that if you give me another black eye, I’m telling everyone you punched me.”

“They’d believe it, too.” 

“Alright, alright,” Dean laughs, holding up his hands as he grabs a racket. “Let’s just get this over with, ‘kay?” 

Charlie bounces the tennis ball by her feet, following it with her eyes as she waits for Dean to get ready. “Any thoughts about the party tomorrow?”

“A few.” A lot, actually, but he’s not about to tell her how hard he had to beg for a cake. “Benny’s getting a room, and I’ve got a cake. Hannah says she’ll take care of decorations, and lunch is already a given.” He shrugs, lunging and swatting for the ball, but still missing it by several feet. “Damn,” he murmurs, as he smacks it under the net to Charlie’s side. “Benny’s going to get him there, too.”

“Good,” Charlie says with a nod, her suit pants rolled up around her knees despite the chill in the air, and her hair tied back in a messy bun. “Now all you’ve got to do is get him a gift.”

And ain’t that the worst of it all. What does someone like Dean get for the man who has everything? There’s not a thing he can afford to buy, and the gift idea he has in mind isn’t working out for shit. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if he can’t get it right, but he’s still got some time to give it another go.

“Have you told the others about the party?” Dean asks, thinking it’s probably better not to just yet. Who knows how well they can keep a secret.

“Nah, I’m going to wait until after the ceremony.” She serves the ball again, softer this time, and Dean almost lands on his face trying for it.

“Probably a good idea,” he pants as he bends over to pick up the ball. He bounces it once. Twice. Throws it back over the net.

They go on like that for a while—Charlie serving, and Dean missing. Well, he doesn’t  _ always  _ miss; there was that one time when he swung so hard, the ball cleared the fencing and landed somewhere out in the field.

Dean was entirely too pleased with himself. Charlie… less so.

By the time the guards find them, along with the camera crew—and even Castiel and Sarah after their date—Dean’s gotten the hang of it a little better, even getting a rally or two going before his overexcitement makes him stumble.

“Good job, Dean!” Sarah cheers, and he looks to her with a cocky grin, shooting her a wink when she throws her hands up in celebration.

Castiel watches.

He doesn’t comment, and there’s that hint of jealousy back in his eyes when Dean smiles at Sarah, but he doesn’t say anything, and Dean figures he should if he’s really that bothered by some harmless flirting.

Because that’s what it is—harmless. Dean knows that, and he knows Sarah does, too. There isn’t even a hint of interest in her eyes when she looks at him, and he’s grateful for it, honestly; he doesn’t need to be letting her down easy along with all his other worries.

But still, he doesn’t like it. It makes his stomach turn to think of Castiel upset with him, especially the day before his surprise birthday party.

An idea forms slow and steady as he continues his game with Charlie, and if he can pull it off, it’ll fix at least two of the issues he’s having.

He’ll ask Castiel to go for a walk.

On the one hand, he’ll be able to determine whether or not Castiel is angry with him, and on the other, if he can get Castiel to agree to a time tomorrow… 

Then he can make sure Castiel actually  _ shows up  _ to his birthday party. 

“Hey, Suse,” Dean says when she’s halfway through fixing his hair for the ceremony.

“Shh,” she hushes, her face so close to his he can feel her breath on his skin. “What is it, boy?”

Maybe this isn’t the best time. 

Oh, it’s never the best time.

“Could you, uh… Could you help me prepare? You know, for my interview?” He finds her eyes before she finds his, but they’re startled when she pulls back, dropping her gel-coated hands to her sides.

“You want my help?”

“Well,  _ yeah _ . I’m not exactly experienced in them, and I’d bet my favorite vinyl you’ve got a few of these under your belt.” He shrugs, grinning like the adorable little shit he knows he is.

“You would be correct, yes,” she sighs, going back to her work on his hair. He closes his eyes as her gentle fingers work his hair into submission, feeling comfortable, and almost sleepy. “But you are almost done, and there’s no time.”

“Thanks, Suse,” Dean drawls, blinking up at her when she’s done before pushing up from his seat. “You’re the best.” 

She smiles, but it’s rushed as she wipes her hands and scoops her tools back into her bag. “Thank  _ you _ , Mr. Winchester,” she whispers, turning to him with a smile as she brushes a hair back from his forehead. “For your healthcare reform idea.”

“Oh.” He nods, having already forgotten about that amidst all his other worries. “Well, uh, thanks for bringing it to my attention.” He’d already been aware of it, of course, but knowing that even those in the palace—the richest place in the kingdom—live without proper healthcare, opened his eyes to just how widespread the problem is.

She’s quiet for a moment, stuck in some thought Dean isn’t privy to, but he waits. Then, when she arrives at some unspoken conclusion, she rests her palm on his cheek, stretching up on her toes to reach, and whispers for only him to hear. “You are so very special, Dean. So very good for this world.”

And it just kind of breaks his heart a little bit, because he’s not special, and he’s not good. But he’ll try to be. For her, and for Castiel, and for everyone who believes in him, he’ll try.

Dean’s not worried. He’s not—really. So what if there’s only one more rose? He’ll get it, he’s sure.

But Castiel was so odd today. So distant and  _ weird _ . 

Is that why? Is Dean going home?

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the final rose,” Duma says, before stepping back into the shadows, and Dean’s heart starts to race.

Castiel takes up the final rose between gloved fingers, and without even a moment’s hesitation, or a hint of doubt, he says, “Dean.”

It happens so fast, he almost doesn't register. Blank-faced and startled, the breath Dean was holding whooshes out of him before he steps off the platform and makes his way across the dimly lit space. 

Sure, he finds it a little weird that he’s always last, and yeah, it’s terrifying right up until his name is called, but that’s exactly it—his name has  _ always  _ been called.

So he steps right up in front of his prince, hands folded in front of him and a smile trying to force its way onto his lips, and waits for Castiel to meet his gaze.

When he does, it’s like an electric charge hits Dean right in the chest, sending fizzling energy through him and stopping his heart in its tracks.

“Dean,” Castiel whispers, low and deep and for only him to hear as those blue eyes pierce his and fuze him to the spot. “Will you accept this rose?”

“Yeah, Cas,” Dean answer without even a second to breathe. He takes the rose, pinching the stem between his fingers, but Castiel doesn’t let go right away, holding on until Dean is forced to meet his gaze once more.

He doesn’t say anything—not out loud, anyway—but the question in his eyes is so obvious, it has an ache building right behind his ribcage.  _ Are you still with me? _

Dean’s answering smile that spreads slow and suropy-sweet across his lips says, in no uncertain terms,  _ of course I’m with you. _

Back on his platform, with a rose in his hands, and Dean’s still smiling.

“Might I speak with you outside,” Michael says, his voice cutting through Dean’s happiness with crisp, cold tones as he calls attention back to his roseless hands and pursed, pinched face.

“Of course,” Castiel murmurs, and to Dean, it looks like he’d rather do anything but. They exit the room, cameramen right on their heels to catch every word. 

Dean turns away from the door, deciding he'd rather not deal with the second-hand embarrassment that's bound to find him from the conversation he knows is being had just outside. He stretches up on his tip-toes, finding his friends in the crowd without much effort.

“Look at us!” Charlie shouts when she gets to Dean’s side with Hannah in tow. “Another week, another rose.” She twirls it between two fingers, examining the perfect petals and long, green stem. “Dorothy will love this one.”

“What?” Dean looks at her like she’s grown another head. “You give it to your girlfriend?”

With a look like he’s stupid for even asking, Charlie says, “Of course I do. I’m not about to let a perfectly good rose go to waste.”

“I preserve mine,” Hannah says, lifting the delicate flower to her nose for a whiff. “Well,  _ I  _ don’t, but I have a guy who does it for more.” With a smile, her eyes flick up to Dean’s. “What do you do?”

With a deep, building flush, Dean stutters, “I, uh… well, I—”

“A toast!” 

Dean takes the save for what it is and turns his back on his friends to step up to the empty rose podium, taking the offered champagne. Dean smiles when Castiel meets his eyes. 

“To brilliance.”

Dean raises his flute to the others before tossing it back, feeling bubblier than the liquid in his glass.

With his rose in one hand, Dean browses the bookshelf in the privacy of his dimly lit room, searching for something in particular.

He knows it’s here; he saw it this morning while searching for Castiel’s gifted handkerchief, and—

Aha!

With nimble fingers, Dean slides the old, leather-bound copy of Bram Stoker’s  _ Dracula  _ from between the others and holds it to the light. It’s not a first edition, like the one in the rainbow room, but it’s old, nonetheless.

But, more importantly, it’s big, and it reminds him of his prince. So, with a contented little smile and a secret delight warming his heart, Dean flips the book open to its center pages and, with the utmost care, settles his rose inside.

_ There _ , he thinks, stroking the petals one last time before closing the book. Five of the biggest, most memorable books on his shelf have a rose between their pages, and he’s hoping for five more to add. If not, well, they’ll live here forever. 

His little secret.


	35. WEEK FIVE - Saturday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a WHILE! Here is a light, fluffy chapter.
> 
> And, as promised, STRIP POKER! Warning that I've never played any kind of poker, so a forewarning that it's probably not super accurate.
> 
> If you want to see what Castiel's waistcoat looks like, follow the link! I promise you won't regret it lol
> 
> Thanks again to Sparrowtail for betaing, you're the best!
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments!

Dean’s hands tremble where they’re stuffed deep inside his trouser pockets, though whether it’s from excitement, nerves, or the ridiculous amount of coffee he needed just to function, he doesn’t know.

He’d been awake into the early hours of the morning finishing his gift for Castiel, organizing the finer details, and informing the rest of the suitors of what they were doing.

Now, however, he’s wishing he’d gotten more sleep. He hasn’t even bothered looking in a mirror, knowing he has dark circles under his droopy-eyes, is as pale as a ghost, and shakes like there’s an electric current running through him.

“Do you have more balloons, Charlie?” Dean calls across the relatively large sitting room Benny was able to get for the party as she strings them up and ties them to a tiny stone to keep them from floating to the ceilings—wouldn’t that just be a disaster.

“Three more bags,” she says while tying the end of a bright blue monstrosity. “Though it’d go a lot faster if everyone did their share.” She shoots a pointed look to April, who sits in the corner on the phone. She’s the only one who bitched about the party, stating she wasn’t given nearly enough time to order the prince a gift. 

Of course, Dean just thinks she’s pissed about not thinking of it herself.

There’s a color theme, of course—blues and whites and golds—and a general understanding that they would all dress to match, so Dean is tucked into a pale cream suit with gold accents in the form of his tie, cufflinks, and the handkerchief folded into his breast pocket.

“Hannah, would you mind helping Charlie?” he asks, catching her arm on her way by with a pleading smile.

“Of course,” she whispers, leaning in to kiss his cheek before veering off in the opposite direction. One less thing to worry about, thank God.

Now if only they had the…

“Frank!” Dean booms, holding his hands out to his sides with a wide grin when the head chef steps through the door with the most beautiful cake Dean’s ever seen rolling along on a cart in front of him. “You’re my hero—I mean that.”

“Yeah, yeah, just save me a piece, would you?” He shoots Dean a wink as he settles the cart by the buffet-style spread of food, making sure to lock the wheels before he steps away.

“Will do.” Dean slaps the man’s thin shoulder before sending him on his way. He examines the cake. 

It’s a three-tiered vanilla cake with honey-buttercream frosting, dusted in gold paint to match the theme. Twenty-one candles fill the three tiers, and it’s topped off with a sparkler candle in the shape of the number twenty-one.

At first, Dean wasn’t too keen on anything other than chocolate, but with Frank’s insistence that _ this _is Castiel’s favorite, Dean conceded and let him do his thing. 

He’s not dropping all judgment yet, though—he’ll wait until he tastes it first.

The sitting room itself is round, with high ceilings and a fireplace on the far side and, though it remains unlit, that’s where the cake sits, making it the focal point of the party. Dean has the food spread out on a table, draped with a deep blue cloth. All the gifts of various shapes, sizes, and price-tags are behind the sofa by the wall near the door.

So far, Dean thinks he’s doing pretty damn good.

It’s just shy of eleven-thirty, meaning Castiel should be arriving any second if Benny does his job right, so as soon as the streamers are tied down, and the balloons strung up, Dean orders everyone into position.

“Mr. Lafitte, I have somewhere to be.” Castiel’s voice carries down the echoing halls along with his footsteps, and Dean’s whole body winds tight with anticipation. He watches the door, his heart pounding the closer they get.

“It can wait, your highness. This is damn important.”

“No, what this is, is ridiculous. I have a very important meeting before lunch and I _ can’t _be late—”

“Surprise!” Their cheers stop Castiel in his tracks, eyes wide, and more than a little startled when he steps through the door. Dean feels giddy, his smile as wide as the sun as Castiel’s eyes find him in the crowd.

“Dean?” he questions, looking to him for answers since it’s with Dean he was supposed to meet before lunch.

“Happy birthday, Cas.” He shrugs, feeling a bit silly for the whole thing, but not silly enough to call it off. “I know it’s late, but I thought you deserved a proper party.”

“You…” he looks lost for words, his mouth opening and closing rhythmically as the rest of them watch on. Tears fill the prince's eyes, and the sight of it has Dean choking up, too. “You did this for me?” he whispers, hand on his chest and eyes on Dean as the rest of the suitors wait to be addressed, too.

“‘Course.” Another shrug—just one shoulder this time—and he takes a step closer to Castiel as the music starts up again. “Presents, and food, and even a cake. Your favorite.”

“I—” Castiel shakes his head, a smile breaking across his face as he swipes at his eyes. “Thank you. Thank you so much, I—”

“Castiel, come try the dumplings,” Kelly says, tearing Castiel’s attention away from Dean before he, too, moves to Kelly’s side, leaving Dean by the door with his smirking guard.

“Bet you’re pleased with yourself, huh, brother?” Benny asks, leaning back on the wall with his arms crossed over his chest and glint in his eye.

“Oh, shut up.”

With his plate scraped clean and the music turned down to a reasonable level, Dean wanders over to a side table, flicking through leftover treats and broken decorations. 

He smiles when he comes across an unopened deck of cards, the box still wrapped in plastic. 

“Time for gifts!”

Dean looks up, tucking the cards in his pocket before wandering closer to the circle of seats set up for just this. He watches Castiel blush a deep red, pleased beyond measure as his closed-lip grin widens and he ducks his chin to hide it from the others.

With warmth blossoming in Dean’s chest, he makes his way across the room, long strides carrying him to Castiel’s side in no time. Hannah is there too, an impeccably wrapped gift clutched between her hands in a shade of soft blue.

“Sit, Cas,” Dean says, fingers brushing his sleeve as Castiel turns into him. Whether consciously or not, Dean doesn’t know, but the smile on Castiel’s lips, soft and sweet, has him realizing he doesn’t really care, either.

“Alright,” he murmurs, blue eyes catching Dean’s as he lowers himself into his chair, never once breaking their gaze. His cheeks are flushed high and rosy, and there’s something almost glassy about his baby blues. Dean knows his prince has had a bit to drink, but he didn’t think it was that much.

Hannah clears her throat, drawing Dean’s attention, but she’s smiling when their eyes meet, a little laughter in her words when she leans in and whispers in his ear. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Castiel so drunk.”

Dean jerks back, amused and confused, because he was _ definitely _far drunker that night in the tunnels. Has she really not seen that before? Not in all their years as friends? 

“No? He doesn’t drink often?” Dean raises an eyebrow, something like hope and happiness and giddy emotion swirling in his stomach as she shakes her head.

“No. He likes control, as you know. Drinking makes him lose that, so he doesn’t do it.” Dean blinks, surprised at such a revelation. Not that he hadn’t already known that, but the fact that Hannah says it so plainly, and right in front of Castiel—not that he’s listening—is… well, he doesn’t really know what it is.

“Sit, Dean,” Castiel says, drawing Dean’s attention by throwing his own words back at him in the most adorable way, and that cheeky grin tells him he knows just what he did. 

Dean does, lowering himself onto the couch next to Castiel’s chair, close enough for them to duck their heads together in conversation, which they do as Hannah sets her gift on the floor beside Castiel’s chair and wanders over to Charlie, who’s stuffing her face with pigs in a blanket.

Castiel glances at the steadily growing pile of boxes by his feet. “What do you think is in there?” he whispers, eyeing the shiny paper and pretty bows like a kid on Christmas morning. 

“I don’t know, Cas. Why don’t you open one?” Dean grins at the tiny frown wrinkling his prince’s brow. 

“Shouldn’t I wait?”

“Why?”

“They’re all still here,” Castiel murmurs, glancing around the room at his guests—his suitors—with an anxious frown Dean will never understand. “Shouldn’t I wait?”

“What?” Dean says, leaning back to get a good look at Castiel, who clutches his hands in his lap. “Why would you wait? We want to see what you think.”

“It’s… it’s impolite, Dean. That’s… my dad always told me it was…” He trails off, looking at his knees now with a confused expression and an air of insecurity Dean has never seen on him before.

“That’s ridiculous,” Dean blurts, a little too loud and a little too abrupt, but maybe he’s had a bit too much to drink, and maybe he’s tired of all this polite bullshit. Castiel deserves to be happy. “Do you want to open them now?”

“Well, yes, I—”

“Then grab one and start tearing, Cas.”

Shellshocked, with his mouth hanging open and eyebrows high on his forehead, Castiel says nothing, but Dean just watches on, never shifting his stern expression as the room goes quiet.

The grandfather clock on the far wall ticks on as their stare-off continues, but after a moment—and several heart attacks on Dean’s part—Castiel’s mouth snaps shut and he reaches for a box on the top of the pile.

“‘To Castiel,’” he reads, his fingers gliding over the metallic black. “‘Love, Sarah.’” He stutters the word ‘love’ but other than that, he looks pleased, and Dean leans back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest and a grin on his lips as he watches Castiel’s childlike joy in tearing the wrapping to shreds.

It’s about halfway through gifts that Dean starts to get a little self-conscious about his own. 

Castiel receives all kinds of watches and jewels and priceless artifacts, offered to him with money and grace. It seems almost like a competition of who has the most money and the willingness to spend it. 

Dean, of course, has none.

As it is, he spent all of his available funds on Castiel’s gift, but it doesn’t even touch the opulence of these, and now he’s thinking that maybe he should just keep it to himself.

But Castiel just looks so happy, and maybe it’s selfish, but Dean wants in on that.

So, when the pile is gone and Castiel is almost buried beneath a pile of paper and boxes, Dean slips his hand into his pocket, his fingers curling around the leather cord as he pulls it out, heart in his throat.

“Cas,” he murmurs, pulling the prince’s attention to him. Castiel lets the watch he was fiddling with, slide into his lap. “I, uh… it’s not much, but I made this for you.” Dean clears his throat, unable to meet Castiel’s eyes as he holds up the necklace with its silver feather pendant swinging on the end. 

Castiel, with the most delicate touch, cups his hands around the pendant as Dean lets it drop. The cord curls into his palm, and Dean finally lets himself look as Castiel brings it close to his face, turning the feather over and over in his fingers.

“It has your name on it,” Dean says, unable to keep quiet as nervous energy sings through him. “On the back, there. And it’s an angel feather because… well, _ Castiel _ is an angel name, but you know that already.” Heat rises in Dean’s cheeks, high and hot as nerves settle in his chest, turning his stomach in knots.

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel whispers, quieter than he did with the others, but there’s a smile on his face and awe in his voice that has Dean’s breath whooshing out of him. “It’s beautiful.”

“I think that’s all of them,” April says, breaking the silence as she toes at the pile of wrapping paper. It draws Castiel’s attention, his smile turning to her as Dean leans back, his heart still pounding. 

He doesn’t miss the way Castiel tucks the pendant in his breast pocket, though. Right next to his heart.

“What do you have there?”

Dean glances over at Castiel, leaning on the arm of his chair with his entire drunken focus on Dean’s crotch.

Okay, not his _ crotch_, but fucking close enough.

“I… what?”

“In your pocket. What is it?” Castiel points, one long finger flicking to the lump in Dean’s jacket pocket. All the air whooshes from Dean’s lungs and he laughs as he pulls out the unopened deck of cards. He hands them to Castiel, their fingers brushing when he takes them.

“Cards,” Dean says, as simple as that. He watches Castiel for a moment as he turns the plastic-wrapped box over in his hands. 

“Do you want to play a game?” Castiel asks, his eyes lifting to meet Dean’s with a devilish grin. 

Dean’s heart leaps into his throat, pulse thundering in his ears as he leans into Castiel’s space. He’s not sure what it is about Castiel’s voice saying something so ordinary, but it’s got his blood singing as he shifts in his seat.

“What kind of game?” Dean murmurs. He doesn’t think he could speak up if he tried, but Castiel hears him just fine.

“Hmm… poker, perhaps?” He lifts an eyebrow, a single curl of dark hair falling over his forehead, and he just looks so goddamn good, Dean can hardly think straight.

He opens his mouth to respond, but Charlie beats him to it. “Strip poker!” She leaps from her seat, snatching up the cards from Castiel’s fingers as he laughs, but to Dean’s, and everyone else’s shock, he doesn’t veto the idea right then and there. “That's it! We’re doing it! You don’t get out of at least _ some _fun for your twenty-first birthday. Even if you are the Crown Prince.”

Again, Castiel laughs as Charlie opens the deck and sinks to the floor, sitting with her legs crossed and her back to the chair as she shuffles. 

“We’re really doing this?” Dean says to no one in particular as Sarah, too, slides to the floor, tucking her dress in around her knees and resting back against the couch. “Okay, then,” Dean says with a defeated little nod as he sinks to the floor himself, followed shortly by Hannah, Kelly, and April before, finally, Castiel joins them, sitting a little too close to Dean to be an accident.

He’s not nervous, exactly—everyone here has seen him in a lot less than he is now—but Castiel… the man is in a room full of his _ suitors_, nearly drunk enough for a nasty hangover, and Dean has a knot in his stomach telling him they might be taking advantage of his laidback, relaxed state.

So he leans in to whisper in Castiel’s ear, breath disturbing the loose strands of hair and sending a tiny, barely visible shiver up his prince’s spine. Castiel leans in, almost involuntarily, and it has Dean’s nerves spiking. “Are you sure about this, Cas? You’re kind of drunk.”

With a breathless laugh and a smile like he hasn’t a care in the world, Castiel turns his face into Dean’s, remaining nose to nose as he speaks. “You say that like I’m going to lose.”

Oh. _ Oh_, so it’s like that, is it? Dean cocks an eyebrow, his smirk pulling up one side of his face as he bumps their shoulders together, only vaguely aware of Charlie explaining the rules and dealing cards.

“Kind of cocky, aren’t you?”

“I prefer to call it confidence, but call it what you like.” 

That’s got Dean throwing his head back on a laugh, lighting up his insides when Castiel’s lips curve in a barely-there smile. He can’t seem to tear his eyes from Dean’s face the whole time, though, and it has warmth blossoming in Dean’s veins.

“Wait, do we have any chips?” Sarah asks, looking around the floor like they’ll appear from nowhere.

“Uh, yeah,” Dean says, confused. “Over on the snack table.”

Sarah, bless her heart, manages to hold back her laughter long enough for Castiel to whisper in his ear.

“Poker chips, Dean. For the game.”

Heat creeps up his neck and into his cheeks, embarrassment flooding him as he lets out a muffled, “Oh,” and sinks back against the couch. 

Castiel, at least, has the grace to only let a small smile slip. He can’t say the same for the others, who snicker under their breath or just outright laugh at his expense. 

Dean rolls his eyes, before waving his hands in a _ let’s get a move on _ gesture. “Alright, ha-ha, very funny. Do we have the chips or not?” 

With chips found and the rules explained for the fourth time, Dean now sits with a drink in one hand and cards in the other, taking slow sips as he realizes he’ll be butt fucking naked in a few rounds.

He looks over his hand, a six of clubs and a three of hearts staring back at him. In the middle of the circle, the flop shows a line up of a ten of spades, a king of diamonds, and a nine of diamonds. Dean’s got fuck all.

Still, he throws in two chips, keeping his face as impassive as he can. “Two,” he says, calling his bet.

Castiel eyes him with possibly the best poker face in the circle, but Dean refuses to look over. He knows he’s crack like a raw egg under an elephant’s toes the moment he does. Still, his heart races as he holds his cards close to his chest. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel’s lip twitches.

“I will see your bet, and raise it to four.” Fuck.

Hannah, on the other side of Castiel, shifts in her cross-legged seat, her face pinching as she stares too long at her cards. She tosses in four chips, and Dean’s heart skips a beat.

“I have a question,” April asks, scowling, not at her cards, but at Charlie, sitting across the circle from her. “Do I really have to take off my clothes?”

“That’s kind of the point, yeah,” Charlie says, snark so thick in her tone, Dean’s surprised she doesn’t choke on it.

“I fold,” April says, tossing in her cards and standing from the circle in a huff. “I’m too mature for these childish games and, quite frankly, I’m appalled that this is being allowed to happen.”

Dean rolls his eyes as she storms off to pout in the corner, sure that it’ll put an end to the fun, or that Castiel will feel obligated to go comfort her. But he doesn’t say a word, and hardly even notices when she waltzes right past him, too focussed on his cards.

“Okay,” Sarah whispers under her breath, her eyes widening a fraction in a way that’s got Dean barely holding his laughter in. April is bat-crap crazy, and he’s glad the others know it too. “Call,” she murmurs, tossing sliding her chips across the floor and closer to the middle.”

Kelly looks at her cards, then the flop, before glances at Castiel through her lashes. “I’ll raise it to five,” she tells them, silky smooth voice accompanied by a sultry smile. 

Dean rolls his eyes so hard he’s sure he’ll strain them.

They all raise to meet her bet, including Charlie, who’s poker face is near Castiel’s in how convincing it is.

Another card is turned over—an ace of spades.

Dean can already feel the loss coming, but he bets anyway, tossing in another chip and waiting for Castiel’s bet like his dignity depends on it. It does, after all.

“I will raise again. Three chips.” His fingers wrap around the chips, clinking them together as he sets them down, and even that is hot—the bastard.

All around the circle, Dean is met with strained looks that surely match his own. He’s got a knot in his stomach, twisting its way into his heart. He takes another swig of his beer as the temperature in the room kicks up a notch or two.

Dean meets the bet, counting eight chips in his pile. Eight articles of clothing if he loses this hand.

Charlie flips the final card, a seven of diamonds, and all the air rushes from Dean’s lungs. In the next second, he wishes he’d held it in because there’s that _ fucking _smile on Castiel’s lips. He knows Dean’s beat—of course he does.

“Fold,” he mumbles, tossing his cards down, his chips in, and his dignity to the wind as he starts stripping. No use losing it all in the very first round. 

As it is, he’s losing both shoes, sock, his jacket, vest, button-down, and tie.

The round is quickly won after that with Castiel coming out on top. Not surprising, but he looks far more excited about Dean is toeing off his shoes than the fact that he doesn’t have to. His socks go next as the others do the same, stripping out of their losses until the only one left is Dean as he unbuttons his button-down. 

He’s still stripping by the time Charlie finishes dealing for him, but he throws out a single-chip bet without so much as looking at his hand.

Sarah lost her stockings and shoes, as well as both earrings, her necklace, and all her rings, and Hannah has a surprising amount of clothing on, only looking a little less sparkly for her losses. Charlie, dressed in a pantsuit, is about the same as Castiel, only with less footwear, and Kelly—who Dean thinks is throwing the game on purpose—is the only one almost out of her dress.

“Oh, baby!” Charlie shouts around a laugh and a wolf whistle when Dean lets his shirt fall off his shoulders, and he’s just drunk enough that he does a little shimmy for her, shooting her a wink and a sexy smile to curb his embarrassment. “Oh, yeah, take it all off!” 

Dean tosses his shirt in her face when it slips free from his wrists, laughing along with her before leaning back against the couch. He knows he looks good, especially with the little bit of weight he’s gained since coming here—not so lean and boney anymore.

He brings his bottle to his lips, tasting the foaming liquid with a long, drawn-out moan. Beer never tasted so good.

“Your highness? Castiel, it’s your turn.” Charlie’s voice carries across the circle, humor evident in her voice as Dean glances over at his prince.

“Pardon?” Castiel looks up at Charlie, but not before Dean finds his prince’s eyes wandering over his bare chest. 

“Your turn.” 

“Oh!” He looks down at his hands, beyond flustered as his cheeks flush and his cards tumble to the floor, face up. A two of hearts and a four of spades. He looks from the cards to Dean, then back again, the defeat clear in his eyes as he sits back with a sigh, already shrugging out of his jacket. “I fold.”

“What is _ that_?” Dean blurts, eyes locked on Castiel’s waist-hugging waistcoat like it personally offends him.

“What?” Castiel blinks, sounding far too breathy to really be asking. 

“Your waistcoat,” Kelly says, pointing to the offending piece of clothing that currently has Dean fearing he’ll have to take off his pants before the tent in them subsides.

“Oh,” Castiel says, looking down at himself and smoothing his hands down the ribbed curves of the [waistcoat,](https://flic.kr/p/2k6TC4g) the silky, dark blue material shining in the low light. 

It’s got Dean’s mouth watering, unable to look away because—well, because Castiel is fucking hot on a normal day, but with that waistcoat… God, Dean could just run his fingers over all those curves for _ hours_.

“My stylist has come to the conclusion that this is a good look for me.” Dean doesn’t miss the way Castiel’s cheeks flush or the self-conscious twitch of his fingers.

“Susie is a fucking genius,” Dean mumbles, unable to keep it in with the alcohol flowing through his veins. He feels all jittery—hopped up on the game, and Castiel, and that fucking _ vest_—but the smile Castiel gives him makes it all worth it. 

Castiel leans in, ignoring the whole room to whisper in Dean’s ear. “I’m sure she will have you in one in no time at all.”

“Is that right?” Dean asks, breathy and overheated.

“It is,” Castiel says. “Do you know what else?” Dean doesn’t respond, but Castiel isn’t really waiting for him to as he leans in a fraction more, alcohol on his breath and a fire in his eyes. “And I can’t wait.”

The game is shut down shortly thereafter, deemed too inappropriate for the Crown Prince by the head of his royal guard, but Dean isn’t too disappointed since he’s now in nothing but his boxers in the chilly room.

He’s got his pants back on now, though, and is buttoning up his shirt when Castiel wanders over, looking a little soberer and a lot happier than he was the day before.

“Hello, Dean,” he murmurs, hands folded behind his back and a smile on his lips.

“Cas,” Dean says, looking up through his eyelashes as he reaches the last button. 

“I wanted to thank you for this.” He makes a vague gesture to the rest of the room and the party as a whole. “It has been one of the best days… maybe _ the _best day…” He trails off, shaking his head as his words catch. “And thank you for the gift. It is so lovely.”

“Oh, it’s…” Dean looks down, embarrassment creeping back in at the mention of his low-rate, handmade gift. “It was nothing. Well, not _ nothing_, but it’s got nothing on your other gifts—”

“It’s my favorite,” Castiel says, cutting him off as he pats the pocket where the pendant is stored. “The most thoughtful gift I’ve ever received.”

“I, uh… you’re welcome, then.” Dean doesn’t get it, but who is he to argue that his gift is subpar when the man it was gifted to is telling him the opposite?

“I was wondering, though, why you insisted we go for a walk?” He raises an eyebrow, smirk turning up the corners of his lips as Dean laughs.

“I needed to make sure you weren’t busy with something else so Benny could get you here.” He shrugs, pleased as pie that his plan went so smoothly.

“I almost didn’t come,” Castiel tells him, moving to lean against the wall beside Dean as he buttons up his waistcoat. “I was so looking forward to taking that walk with you.”

That’s got Dean’s fingers freezing on his buttons. He looks up to meet Castiel’s eyes, hope blossoming in his chest when he finds nothing but pure honestly staring back. 

“We could still go, you know?” Dean says, finishing with the buttons as Castiel holds up his jacket for him to shrug into.

“And we will. You owe me that much.”

When Dean turns back to face him, there’s something so near to adoration in the prince’s eyes, it’s almost overwhelming. It almost has Dean leaning in to kiss him. 

He wants to—God, does he want to—and he thinks Castiel just might let him, but he doesn’t. 

Not yet.

**Author's Note:**

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